reiser 


7. 


THE  LONE   FURROW 


THE 

LONE   FURROW 


BY 

W.  A.  FRASER 

AUTHOR  OF 

"THIRTEEN  MEN,"  "THOROUGHBREDS," 
"MOOSWA,"  ETC. 


D.    APPLETON    AND    COMPANY 

NEW    YORK 

1907 


COPYRIGHT,  1907,  BY 
D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 


Published  February,  1901 


DEDICATED   TO 
"THE   GREAT   WHITE    BEAR" 


2228930 


FOREWORD 


THE  Lady-who-knows  was  telling  me  of  the  four  great 
men  who  had  trailed  their  signatures  up  and  down  this  con- 
tinent in  huge  enduring  letters  of  steel  and  masonry  and 
mental  monuments ;  and,  after  a  time,  I  asked :  "  But  who  is 
the  one  great  man — four  are  confusing?  " 

She  smiled  whimsically,  and  smoothed  the  folds  of  her 
plain  dress  thoughtfully  for  a  minute.  Then  she  asked, 
"Are  you  fond  of  child  stories?" 

"  Yes,"  I  answered ;  "  but  what  has  that  to  do  with  the 
great  point  at  issue?  " 

With  a  prelude  of  the  whimsical  smile  she  related  this 
little  narrative: 

"  Once  upon  a  time  I  was  visiting  in  the  home  of  one  of 
these  '  Big  Four '  men.  Another  visitor  was  there  with  a 
little  baby.  I  think  she  did  not  know  a  great  deal  about 
babies. 

"  One  night  I  was  wakened  by  the  plaintive  wailing  of 
the  little  one  whom  I  knew  had  been  left  to  be  cared  for 
by  the  nurse.  After  a  time — it  must  have  been  nearly  an 
hour — the  shrill  little  voice  was  stilled,  and  I  was  just  drop- 
ping off  to  sleep  when  sister  Barbara  came  to  my  room, 
touched  me  on  the  arm,  and  beckoned  me  with  forefinger, 
and  in  silence,  to  rise  and  follow  her. 

"  Very  gently  she  opened  the  door  a  little ;  and,  peeping 
vii 


Foreword 

through  the  crack,  I  saw,  prowling  up  and  down  the  dim- 
lighted  corridor,  a  huge  white  bear. 

"  Presently  the  bear  became  metamorphosed,  by  the  nearer 
view,  into  our  host,  the  one  corner  of  the  '  Big  Four,'  clad 
in  his  white  nightshirt,  in  his  arms  the  little  baby  sucking  in 
happy  content  from  a  feeding  bottle  of  warm  milk. 

"  As  we  watched — I  think  there  was  a  tear  of  apprecia- 
tion blurring  my  sight — the  little  one  fell  asleep ;  then  it  was 
given  back  to  the  nurse,  the  white  bear,  grumbling  as  bears 
do,  lumbered  back  to  his  den,  and  Barbara,  saying:  '  Wasn't 
it  beautiful !  I  wonder  where  in  the  world  he  got  that  milk 
heated — he  must  have  gone  all  the  way  down  to  the  kitchen 
for  it,'  slipped  through  the  door  of  her  room,  and  I  fell 
asleep,  glad  that  I  had  seen  the  generally  hidden  gentleness 
of  a  great  man." 

"  It  was  beautiful,"  I  said  to  the  Lady-who-knows.  "  I 
have  written  a  book  with  a  baby  and  a  strong  man  in  it,  and 
I  am  going  to  dedicate  it  to  the  man  of  huge  affairs  who 
had  pity  in  his  heart  for  a  babe,  and  the  wisdom  to  alleviate 
the  little  one's  needs." 

"  You  don't  know  his  name,  so  you  can't  get  his  permis- 
sion," the  Lady-who-knows  objected. 

"  I  will  just  dedicate  it  to  the  '  Great  White  Bear,'  " 
I  answered  insistently,  "  then  nobody  will  know,  only  you 
and  I,  and  he  can't  object." 


Vlll 


CHAPTER   I 

[HIS  chronicle  of  the  simple  life  at  Lilac  Hedge 
would  be  like  offering  in  barter  a  web  of 
homespun  if  it  were  not  for  the  story  of  a 
woman's  pathetic  wait  which  runs  through  it 
like  a  thread  of  burnt  gold,  and  the  mystery 
that  shrouded  Minister  Neil  Munro's  life. 

For  years  the  house  had  held  its  brick-red  cheek  de- 
fiantly to  the  village  street,  with  just  a  curious  old  picket 
fence  separating  the  two. 

When  the  Memsahib  planted  the  spindly  withes  of  lilac, 
they  seemed  so  hopelessly  attenuated  for  a  possible  barrier 
that  I  viewed  her  efforts  with  silent  ridicule;  but  now  the 
hedge  rests  its  elbows  on  the  picket  fence  in  summer  holding 
aloft  a  purple  curtain  behind  which  we  rehearse  our  simple 
drama  of  life,  shielded  from  the  critical  audience  of  the 
village. 

Our  tent  is  pitched  in  the  land  beautiful — a  sentient 
beauty  that  is  not  alone  optical;  a  kindly  fate  is  the  real 
architect  of  our  happy  environment.  The  purple-red  blos- 
som clusters  of  the  hedge,  like  feathered  plumes,  nod  con- 
tentedly to  the  graystone  church  that  cuts  its  sharp  gable  up 
to  the  place  of  stars  just  across  the  earth  road  we  call  a 


The  Lone   Furrow 


street.  Sometimes  the  church  is  just  a  blur  against  the  Rem- 
brandt background  of  darkened  night ;  and  sometimes,  in  the 
enlarging  moonlight,  it  looms  cathedral-like.  One  night  out 
of  seven  its  stained-glass  window  shows  a  sacred  group  bathed 
in  a  flood  of  yellow  light;  star-led,  sturdy  shepherds  gaze 
upon  the  infant  Christ  that  nestles  in  the  Madonna's  arms. 
Just  glass,  blue  and  red,  and  figures  born  of  faltering  art, 
and  yet  it  stood  a  beacon  light  to  a  storm-tossed  soul  striving 
in  the  waters  of  bitterness,  wandering  blindly  through  the 
Valley  of  Achor. 

From  within  the  thick  stone  walls  a  many-throated  organ, 
leisurely,  sonorous,  making  little  of  our  pin  pricks,  thrusts 
its  rich  melody  across  our  hedge,  and  then  we  forget. 

On  our  right  hand  dwells  "  Grandma  Murdoch  " — 
"  Grandma  "  in  the  consanguinity  of  our  friendship,  and  the 
altitude  of  years  that  pyramid  upward  from  the  young  life 
of  our  children  to  Grandma's  three-score.  In  her  eyes  we 
stand  deified  as  the  authors  of  the  little  ones  she  adores;  a 
curious  reflex  claim  we  have  upon  her  fostering  regard.  The 
children  go  to  her  lawn  and  prattle  like  the  fussy  second 
hand  on  a  dignified  clock;  and  Grandma  figuratively  strikes 
the  hour — a  rich  word  of  wisdom  or  of  approval  now  and 
then. 

Some  curious  leagues  of  unexplored  mental  territory  lie 
between  us  elders,  for  we  seldom  take  the  long  journey  of 
its  traversing,  to  come  together  in  one  another's  holding. 
Once  in  a  great  while  one  of  the  children  may  fall  ill ;  then 
indeed  Grandma  comes  the  many  leagues  of  a  dozen  yards 
to  ask  how  the  little  one  is  faring,  bearing  gifts  of  flowers, 
or  a  jelly,  or  a  cooling  black-currant  drink. 

On  our  left  dwell  people  lovable  in  their  content  of  dis- 
2 


The  Lone  Furrow 


tant  friendship.  And  just  beyond  them  lives  the  Agnostic, 
ever  ready  to  wander  erratically  up  the  walk  to  our  lawn, 
possessed  of  an  insatiate  desire  to  solve  the  Why  and  How 
and  When,  and  rearrange  the  This  and  That  of  the 
universe. 

This  monochromatic  life,  frictionless,  smooth  gliding, 
should  have  endured  like  a  well-placed  glacier;  but  it  is 
in  just  such  placid  fields  that  meteoric  rocks  fall;  and  one 
day  in  June  the  beginning  of  a  Something  began. 

In  the  deceitfully  quiet  prelude  of  it,  I  had  my  trout 
rod  in  hand,  waiting  for  Laddie,  who,  down  by  the  stable, 
was  ruthlessly  upturning  to  the  disquieting  light,  pink-red 
spirals  of  coral  that  were  earthworms. 

I  heard  a  quick,  nervous  step  on  the  board  sidewalk 
which  I  knew  heralded  the  approach  of  Teacher  Ruth 
Harkett.  She  flustered  through  the  hedge  opening,  clatter- 
ing the  gate  with  nervous  indecision;  on  the  smooth,  quaint, 
ivory-toned  face,  crested  by  bronze-gray  hair,  was  acute 
distress. 

Something  had  gone  wrong  in  the  church,  I  noted  men- 
tally. It  was  not  the  hour  for  Doodoo's  music;  neither 
was  it  the  set  time  for  French;  and  as  the  little  woman 
took  interest  in  nothing  but  the  church,  outside  of  these 
things,  I  knew  the  wrinkled  brow  was  caused  by  the  huge 
graystone  structure  across  the  way. 

"  Such  trouble !  "  she  panted. 

"  Is  it  the  organ  again?"  I  asked. 

"  No,  not  the  organ." 

She  did  not  confide  in  me;  and  I  felt  that  it  was  some- 
thing not  for  the  crude  handicraft  of  man,  so  I  said,  "The 
Memsahib  is  about  somewhere." 


The  Lone  Furrow 


Teacher  slipped  through  the  door  like  a  frightened 
mouse,  all  in  nervous  haste;  and,  just  as  Laddie  and  I 
passed  to  the  sidewalk,  she  and  the  Memsahib  came  out,  the 
latter's  face  mirroring  the  visitor's  anxiety,  as  she  said: 
"  Don't  stay  too  late,  please;  we  may  need  you." 

Laddie  and  I  swung  down  the  country  road,  two  chil- 
dren— I  youthed  to  blitheness  by  the  rejuvenating  tingle  of 
the  quivering  rod  in  my  fingers.  The  air  was  an  atmos- 
pheric blanket  of  vaporous  warmth.  I  cried  aloud  in  joy 
when  a  raindrop  spatted  against  my  nose. 

"  The  trout  will  be  crazy  to  feed,"  I  said  to  Laddie. 

"  I  bet  we'll  catch  a  whole  lot  of  fish,  Father,"  he 
answered. 

We  had  just  topped  the  long  hill  that  curved  away  to  a 
gentle  valley  that  cradled  in  its  lap  a  brook  loitering  like 
a  laggard  schoolboy  after  a  mad  scrambling  race  to  escape 
from  the  clutch  of  some  Genii  hidden  in  the  pine  wood  that 
was  an  emerald  wedge  driven  between  the  hills  away  to 
our  right. 

We  ran  down  the  clay  road,  too  careless  to  quarrel  with 
claiming  gravity.  The  loose-jointed  wooden  bridge  drooped 
its  shoulders  as  if  its  thirty  years  of  bearing  countless  loads 
of  golden  grain  had  broken  its  spirit;  but  its  rail,  purple- 
gray,  shone  like  a  necklace  of  pearls  in  the  ripple  of  ame- 
thyst waters  beneath.  Little  singing  brook  voices  came  up 
through  the  chinks  of  the  planks  as  we  clattered  across 
in  restless  haste;  and  where  we  climbed  the  rail  fence  to  a 
meadow  that  nursed  millions  of  sapphire  violets,  was  a  jar- 
ring note  of  man's  inhumanity  to  man ;  it  read : 


The  Lone  Furrow 


FISHING   STRICTLY   PROHIBITED. 
TRESPASSERS   WILL   BE   PROSECUTED. 

DONALD  MACKAY. 

With  the  point  of  my  rod  I  tickled  Donald  MacKay  in 
the  ribs;  rubbed  its  brass  nose  across  his  notice  in  derision. 
Little  we  stood  in  awe  of  the  MacKay.  Was  he  not  our 
postmaster,  and  a  Tory,  with  the  opposite  party,  the  Lib- 
erals, in  power?  Donald,  holding  his  office  by  toleration, 
might  quarrel  with  no  man.  His  writing  on  the  wall  was 
a  dead  letter — killed  by  the  insistence  of  the  village  no- 
mads that  they  would  cast  a  fly  wherever  the  speckled 
beauties  swam. 

Then  I  headed  for  the  Skipper's  pool  and  flicked  its 
purple  breast  with  flies  of  alluring  garb ;  my  Brown  Hackle, 
my  Silver  Doctor — all  of  the  lying  decoys  I  tried  in  vain. 

Suddenly  I  saw  a  look  of  anxiety  on  Laddie's  face;  but 
before  I  could  ask  the  reason  I  was  answered  from  behind 
my  back. 

"  Aye,  friend,  an'  hoo  do  ye  like  my  fishin'?  " 

It  was  MacKay 's  voice. 

"  I  don't  think  much  of  it,"  I  answered,  somewhat  un- 
graciously; "I've  lost  two  flies  and  a  good  cast  on  a  root 
in  the  stream,  and  haven't  had  a  rise." 

"  I'm  feared  the  brook's  fished  oot.  I  think  I'll  just 
tak'  doon  yon  notice;  it's  too  much  o'  an  attraction  tae 
fishermen." 

"  I  was  going  to  ask  you  for  leave,  MacKay,  as  soon 
as  I  got  home,"  I  said  apologetically.  "  I  thought  perhaps 

5 


The  Lone  Furrow 


I'd  enrich  my  request  with  a  couple  of  trout  for  your  supper, 
then." 

"Ah,  ye  needn't  trouble.  I  dinna  mind  your  fishing — 
I've  told  you  that  before.  But  I  mortal  dislike  the  way 
Willie  Angus  has  o'  doin'.  He  gets  the  loan  of  my  rod 
to  fish  my  own  preserves,  and  half  the  time  he  doesn't  bring 
it  back  at  all — I  have  tae  send  for  it.  I'll  just  hae  a  pipe 
an'  go  back." 

We  lighted  up  together,  while  Laddie,  encouraged  by 
the  Scot's  peaceful  tone,  threaded  one  of  the  live  coral  things 
to  the  curve  of  his  hook. 

"  Ha'e  they  any  news  o'  the  Minister?"  MacKay 
asked,  running  a  stalk  of  dry  grass  through  the  stem  of 
his  pipe. 

"What  minister  do  you  mean,  MacKay?" 

"  I  didna  know  there  was  more  than  one  in  the  village," 
he  answered. 

I  understood.  MacKay  meant  the  guardian  of  the 
Scotch  Kirk ;  the  Methodist  parson,  and  the  Baptist,  and  all 
the  others  were,  according  to  the  Calvinist,  just  not  min- 
isters at  all. 

"What's  wrong  with  him?"  I  asked. 

"  He's  away — did  you  no'  hear  it?  He  disappeared  yes- 
terday— vanished,  like  the  spirits  o'  Tam  O'Shanter." 

Now  I  understood  why  Teacher  had  come  for  the  Mem- 
sahib  with  a  world  of  trouble  in  her  sweet,  patient  face. 

"  Perhaps  he's  just  gone  for  a  visit,"  I  hazarded. 

"  Not  at  all.  He  just  left  the  poor  lady,  his  wee  wifie, 
expectin'  him  home  tae  breakfast,  an'  she's  waitin'  yet.  They 
saw  him  at  the  station,  some  say.  It's  altogether  most  ex- 
traordinare.  I'm  thinkin'  he  was  daffy  of  late." 

6 


The  Lone  Furrow 


"  He  worked  too  hard,"  I  said ;  "  the  church  at  Kin- 
tyre  was  too  much.  Two  sermons  in  the  kirk,  and  a  drive 
of  eight  miles  to  Kintyre,  with  another  sermon,  all  in  one 
day,  was  too  much  for  any  man." 

"  He  was  a  weakling.  I'm  no  sure  but  there  might 
be  something  back  o'  it  all — something  to  smudge  the  good 
name  o'  the  Kirk." 

"  He  was  too  enthusiastic,"  I  contended — "  too  consci- 
entious. He  was  giving  his  life  for  a  lot  of  pagans!" 
MacKay's  insinuation  angered  me;  for  more  than  once, 
wearied  beyond  count  by  the  seeming  hopelessness  of  his 
fight  for  tangible  progression,  the  Minister  had  sat  in  my 
study  where  there  was  the  open  grate,  the  kindness  of  pic- 
tures, and  the  smell  of  books,  and  under  this  influence  had 
allowed  his  soul  to  leak  out  a  little;  therefore  I  knew  that 
what  MacKay  said,  or  hinted  at,  was  a  lie. 

"Aye,  he  was  a  busy  body;  but  I've  seen  many  a  clat- 
terin'  horse  that  wouldna'  get  over  the  ground  fast.  He 
was  revolutionary,  if  you  ken  what  I  mean." 

"I  don't." 

"  Well,  he  was  new-fangled ;  he  was  like  a  pea  on  a 
hot  griddle.  I'm  thinkin'  he  took  more  stock  in  the  organ 
an'  the  singin'  than  he  did  in  profound  theology.  I  dinna 
care  to  see  a  minister  o'  the  Gospel  wearin'  a  mustache — it's 
no  pleasant  to  my  ears  to  hear  the  word  o'  God  whistlin' 
thro'  hair.  An'  speakin'  o'  whistlin',  once  I  walked  home 
from  prayer  meetin'  with  him,  an'  he  just  kept  up  a  snivel 
of  whistle  as  though  we'd  been  at  a  nigger  show.  I  didn't 
like  it  over-well — it  was  no  respectful  to  the  solemnity  of 
the  occasion." 

MacKay  was  cut  short  in  his  harangue  by  a  yell  from 

7 


The   Lone  Furrow 


Laddie.  I  saw  the  boy  spring  to  his  feet;  and  something 
of  strength  was  bending  his  short  birch  rod  almost  double, 
and  the  line  was  cutting  through  the  water  with  a  hissing 
swish. 

"God,  man!  he  haes  him — he's  hooked  the  Skipper!" 
yelled  MacKay,  scrambling  up.  "  Play  him  a  little,  Mannie 
— play  him!  Gie  him  the  butt!"  the  Scot  commanded, 
forgetting  the  nature  of  the  boy's  tackle. 

"Stick  to  him,  Laddie!"  I  admonished. 

My  fingers  tingled  to  handle  the  birch  rod,  but  sport 
forbade.  Laddie  had  hooked  the  Skipper — into  the  hands 
of  babes  he  had  been  delivered — and  all  we  could  do  was 
advise. 

"  He'll  break  the  line!  Ease  him  doon,  Laddie,  ease  him 
doon.  Dinna  haul  on  him!  " 

MacKay's  serenity  was  deeply  ruffled — he  was  inter- 
ested. He  raced  up  and  down  the  bank  of  the  pool  like  a 
water  spaniel ;  he  jumped  into  the  air. 

"  Lord !  for  a  landin'  net — for  a  scoop !  "  he  ejaculated. 
"  Let  him  bide  now,  Laddie,  let  him  bide — dinna  yank  on 
him." 

Deep  down  under  a  big  root  the  Skipper  was  sulking. 

"  Rest  yoursel',  Laddie — dinna  get  excited,  boy."  And 
the  giver  of  this  advice  of  calmness  was  prancing  up  and 
down  like  a  war  horse.  Then  off  came  the  MacKay's  coat ; 
he  rolled  up  his  sleeves  and  threw  himself  on  his  stomach, 
saying:  "Hold  my  legs,  man!  I'm  goin'  to  run  a  hand 
far  doon  to  see  if  I  can  gill  him  wi*  my  fingers — it's 
fair  enough.  Dinna  tickle  him,  Laddie;  just  soothe  him, 
like." 

"  Be  careful,  man,"  I  said,  for  MacKay,  stretching  down 
8 


The  Lone   Furrow 


along  the  line  till  his  chin  was  in  the  water,  was  hard  to 
hold  on  the  slippery  bank. 

I  think  Laddie  must  have  "  tickled  "  the  Skipper,  for  he 
came  from  his  purple  lair  with  a  rush.  I  hardly  know  just 
how  it  happened,  but  the  MacKay's  legs  slipped  from  my 
grasp,  and  in  he  went. 

Perhaps  it  was  the  appearance  of  the  red-headed  Scot 
in  his  pool  that  disgusted  the  Skipper;  at  any  rate  he 
whirled  and  came  down  stream,  the  line  singing  with  his 
speed. 

"  To  the  bar — give  him  a  lead  down  to  the  shallows, 
Laddie !  "  I  yelled,  excitement  blinding  my  eyes  to  the  pre- 
dicament of  the  MacKay;  in  fact,  the  Scot  had  practically 
disappeared  from  off  the  face  of  the  earth.  But  now,  even 
as  I  clutched  at  the  boy's  arm,  leading  him  down  bank,  the 
birch  rod  quivered  and  bowed  with  a  new  pressure,  the  line 
held  rigid,  the  running  water  throwing  a  gray  feather  of 
spray  from  its  quivering  cord. 

Before  he  could  check  again,  Laddie  had  him  in  the 
shallow  waters  of  the  gravel  bar  below,  where  he  was  quite 
helpless. 

I  confess  that  in  my  excitement  I  rushed  to  the  salvage 
of  the  trout,  leaving  the  MacKay  to  his  own  devices.  In 
among  the  slippery  stones  I  floundered,  and,  thrusting  my 
thumb  in  the  speckled  monarch's  gills,  lifted  him  from 
the  waters. 

"  Ha'e  you  got  him,  man  ?  "  I  heard ;  and  there  was 
the  dripping  red  head  of  the  Scot  showing  above  the  bank 
of  the  pool. 

"Are  you  all  right,  MacKay?" 

"  I  had  na  thought  of  a  bath  to-day,"  said  MacKay, 
2  9 


The  Lone  Furrow 


clambering  out.  "  But  I'm  not  mindin'  it  a  bit,  seein'  as 
we've  landed,  between  us,  yon  trout." 

He  had  the  fish  in  his  grasp  now,  caressing  him  like  a 
loved  child. 

"  Three  poun',  if  he's  an  ounce,"  MacKay  judged,  mak- 
ing a  scales  of  his  hands.  "  I'm  powerful  wet,  though," 
and  he  whipped  off  his  breeks  and  wrung  them  out. 

"  It's  an  odd  turn  this,  MacKay,"  I  said;  "every  man- 
jack  in  the  village  has  been  after  the  Skipper  for  three 
years,  and  now  Laddie  catches  him  with  a  schoolboy's 
tackle." 

"  Aye ;  Fate  often  throws  the  best  cut  to  fools  or  chil- 
dren. I  hooked  the  Skipper  once  mysel',  but  he  took  my 
cast,  broke  it  as  though  it  was  a  thread — I'll  swear  this  is 
the  hook  in  his  maw  now." 

True  enough,  the  old  warrior  of  the  pool  wore  three 
fly-hooks  in  his  upper  lip,  as  a  Rameses  might  have 
sported  scarabae,  and  his  sides  were  scarred  from  combat 
with  bulls  of  his  own  kind.  He  was  the  finest  brook  trout 
I  had  ever  seen ;  but,  also,  there  was  the  bitter  thought 
that  I,  scientific  angler,  had  failed  in  the  taking  of 
this  prize,  and  that  ten-year-old  Laddie  had  put  shame 
upon  me. 

Then  we  wrapped  the  king  trout  in  a  royal  robe,  purple 
and  fine  linen,  the  clear  cool  grass  of  the  meadow,  entombed 
him  in  my  creel,  and  with  pride  in  our  hearts  we  swung 
back  to  the  village. 

Just  as  we  came  to  the  roadway,  MacKay  wrote  on  the 
prohibitory  notice,  with  a  pencil: 

"The  Skipper  was  caught  this  date,  27th  of  June,  1906." 
10 


The  Lone  Furrow 


"I'm  thinkin'  that'll  do  more  for  keepin'  the  meadow 
from  bein'  tramped  to  death  than  the  notice  itself,"  he  said. 

As  the  Memsahib  came  to  the  wicket  in  the  hedge  I, 
blinded  by  the  triumph  of  having  been  in  at  the  death,  said : 
"  Laddie  caught  the  Skipper;  look — isn't  he  a  beauty!  " 

"  Hush — sh !  "  she  whispered,  and  motioned  with  her 
hand  toward  my  study. 

MacKay  must  have  seen  the  movement,  for  without  a 
word  he  departed. 

"You've  heard  about  the  Minister?"  the  Memsahib 
asked. 

I  nodded. 

"  I've  brought  the  poor  wifie  home." 

The  Memsahib  put  her  hand  on  my  arm,  and  with 
pleading  in  her  gray  eyes  continued:  "  You  won't  mind?  She 
would  have  gone  mad  all  alone  there  in  the  house." 

That  way  was  the  coming  of  Jean  Munro;  as  she  said 
herself,  in  a  woman's  faith,  just  for  a  few  days  until  her 
husband  returned. 

The  Memsahib  explained  that  there  was  nothing  for 
me  to  do  in  the  matter,  as  the  Reeve  of  the  village  and  the 
deacons  of  the  Kirk  had  taken  active  measures  for  his  find- 
ing; just  that  the  wife  was  to  be  with  us  as  in  a  haven 
of  consolation  and  cheer. 

"  She  has  got  to  be  with  friends ;  she's  not  fit  to  be  left 
alone,"  the  Memsahib  said.  The  full  significance  of  her 
words  was  lost  upon  me  at  the  time,  as  I  remembered,  when 
I  came  to  know  of  Jean's  baby — a  babe  that  was  to  prove 
stronger  than  men  and  women. 

That  afternoon  lona  was  divided,  agitated  by  the  two 
new,  great  interests — the  disappearance  of  Minister,  and  the 

II 


The  Lone  Furrow 


taking  of  the  Skipper.  The  feeling  of  accepted  calamity  in 
regard  to  Minister  Munro's  disappearance  had  obtained 
rapidly  now;  Minister  had  been  gone  but  two  days — might 
he  not  be  away  just  for  a  rest?  But  then  Jean  must  know 
something  of  bad  import  over  his  going,  for  it  was  her  ap- 
prehension that  permeated  our  nerves. 

I  thought  of  the  weird  address  the  Minister  had  given 
his  congregation  the  very  last  Sabbath  preceding  his  dis- 
appearance. He  had  been  like  one  possessed  of  a  haunting 
memory  of  some  black  chapter  in  the  past.  It  appealed 
to  me  as  if  he  were  speaking  out  of  his  memory — at  times 
his  declamatory  vehemence  had  caused  me  to  study  his  face 
for  signs  of  mental  disorder.  He  reviled  the  drink  demon 
as  though  it  were  an  embodied  ogre  standing  in  front  of 
him.  In  fact,  I  saw  MacKay  and  some  of  the  stanch  Pres- 
byterians, sitting  in  front  pews,  squirming  under  his  casti- 
gation. 

Full  of  this  remembrance  I  went  to  the  Memsahib  and 
spoke  of  it.  It  was  a  new  light.  Munro  perhaps  had  be- 
come deranged  through  overwork,  and  might  have  com- 
mitted suicide.  But  she  would  not  believe  it  likely  that 
Minister  had  done  such  a  wicked  thing,  holding  that  he  was 
perhaps  ill  somewhere,  and  that  we  should  hear  from  him 
in  a  day  or  so. 

The  children  crept  about  the  house  silently,  like  mice, 
instinctively  knowing  that  Dread  had  stolen  in  with  the 
shadows  of  evening,  and  would  perch  upon  the  pillow  of 
some  sleeper  in  our  household.  When  the  subtle  change 
from  gray  to  shadow  had  ceased,  and  it  was  dark,  they 
came  to  say  good  night. 

Always  this  was  an  observance  of  unbridled  liberty.  I, 
12 


The  Lone  Furrow 


the  stern  parent  of  the  daytime,  becoming  a  stalking  horse 
for  the  unloading  of  remnants  of  frivolity.  My  ears  nature 
had  set  on  at  an  angle  that  they  might  be  the  more  easily 
pinched  or  pulled,  and  the  top  of  my  pate,  the  smooth 
patch,  inviting  childish  criticism;  the  good-night  kiss  itself, 
sometimes  seven-limbed  like  Kali,  or  a  prefunctory  dab  at 
my  mustache,  followed  by  a  grimace  of  distaste. 

But  this  night  subdued  tenderness  suggested  that  they 
had  aged  to  sympathetic  wisdom.  All  but  Laddie,  who, 
being  a  boy,  whispered  in  my  ear :  "  Wasn't  he  a  whopper, 
Father?" 

There  it  was  again — Skipper  claiming  interest.  But  I 
noticed  that  Laddie  kissed  the  pale  cheek  of  our  guest  as 
tenderly  as  did  his  sisters. 

The  Memsahib  came  down  from  putting  the  children 
to  bed,  and  wre  went  out  to  the  lawn,  where  the  sky  was 
brought  close  by  myriad  stars.  The  Memsahib  and  Jean 
sat  apart  from  me,  and  I  knew  their  hands  were  clasped. 

Perhaps  these  things  had  made  me  selfish.  There  was  a 
suggested  change  that  hardened  me.  My  side  of  the  hedge 
had  held  all  this  that  was  a  catering  to  satisfaction,  to 
happiness;  driving  my  pen  had  been  sufficient  to  me.  That 
each  dwelling,  up  and  down  the  street,  held  its  own  trag- 
edy of  drink,  or  of  poverty,  or  of  death,  or  of  worse,  was 
to  me  nebulous  knowledge,  concrete  to  those  with  whom  it 
had  to  do.  Even  the  church  across  the  way,  majestic, 
dominant,  meant  but  a  place  of  irregular  entry,  except  to 
the  Memsahib  and  the  children;  now  it  had  leaped  the 
hedge — its  heart  throbbed  on  my  lawn. 

Soon  I  heard  the  nervous  step  of  Teacher  Ruth ;  it  irri- 
tated me. 

13 


The  Lone  Furrow 


She  turned  in  at  the  gate. 

"There's  no  word  of  Minister  yet,  God  guard  him!" 
she  whispered  to  me;  and  then  went  over  to  the  two  who 
were  sitting  in  silence,  waiting.  And  there  I  am  sure  she 
told  an  optimistic  lie  of  charitableness — a  weak  invention, 
a  tale  of  hope;  thinking  to  help  Jean  to  a  little  sleep  that 
night. 

My  mental  disquietude  was  strangely  at  variance  with 
the  silence  of  the  evening.  The  air  was  like  an  irritating 
void,  receptive,  vibratory  to  the  least  friction  of  noise. 
Down  where  the  pond  cradled  in  the  valley's  lap,  the  pip- 
ing voices  of  young  frogs  rose  upon  the  stillness  and  floated 
up  to  us — tiny  trebles  of  complaint  they  seemed. 

Suddenly  the  strum  of  a  banjo  picked  by  irresolute  fin- 
gers pushed  waveringly  down  the  street  and  over  the  hedge. 
Then  a  sweet  tenor  voice — so  sweet,  so  familiar,  that  I 
knew  Jean  would  shiver  in  misery — mingled  with  the  drone 
of  the  banjo.  It  was  Jean's  brother,  Robert  Craig,  who 
sang  "  Home  they  brought  her  warrior  dead."  And  what 
was  the  strange  fatality  that  wedded  his  sweet  tenor  to 
the  words  that  were  like  the  drip  of  blood  from  the  fingers 
of  Mamselle  Guillotine! 

"  Home  they  brought  her  warrior  dead; 
She  nor  swooned  nor  uttered  cry; 
All  her  maidens,  watching,  said, 
« She  must  weep  or  she  will  die.'  ' 

How  clearly  the  knife  thrust  through  the  night  air  from 
the  open  window  of  the  tavern,  just  beyond  Grandma's 
house — but  a  stone's  throw  from  where  we  sat. 

When  the  singer's  voice  hushed  at  the  end  of  the  sec- 


ond  verse  I  almost  welcomed  the  mad  carnage  of  rabble 
voices  that  followed. 

"The  Lacrosse  boys!"  Teacher  said,  in  deprecation; 
"  they  beat  the  team  from  Kintyre  to-day,  and  are  having 
a  little  supper." 

I  knew  what  that  meant — I'm  afraid  Jean  did.  Rob- 
ert's exquisite  voice  was  a  curse  to  him.  Always  in  the 
village  it  brought  him  within  the  lure  of  his  inherited  bond- 
master — drink.  Like  an  echo  of  my  thoughts  came  the 
united  bellow  of  many,  inharmoniously  declaring  that: 

"There'll  be  a  hot  time  in  the  old  town  to-night!" 

Their  laughter  mocked  the  silent  misery  that  was  over 
our  little  group.  Somebody  had  mercifully  closed  the  win- 
dow; perhaps  the  revelers  had  gone  from  that  room,  for 
presently  the  hilarious  noises  ceased,  and  I  could  hear  the 
three  women  talking  intermittently  in  low  tones.  Tacitly 
we  all  had  determined  to  sit  late  into  the  night;  I  think 
we  all  dreaded  the  wakeful  pillow — I,  even,  feeling  too 
morbid  for  my  work  in  the  study. 

It  must  have  been  close  to  midnight  when  I  heard  the 
irregular  tramp  of  erratic  feet  on  the  sidewalk.  The 
darkness  held  indistinctly  the  forms  of  two  men  coming 
our  way,  with  some  jangling  element  of  discord  in  their 
speech. 

The  treacherous  light  of  the  open  doorway  betrayed  me, 
silhouetting  my  form  against  its  bright  background,  and  I 
saw  through  the  gate  cleft  in  the  hedge,  the  leering  face 
of  Robert,  as  he  called  mockingly :  "  Hello,  Professor  Maun- 
chausen !  You  ought  to  be  in  bed — hie !  's  no  good  burning 
midnight  oil,  you  know !  " 

I  darted  to  the  gate,  through  it,  and  whispered :  "  Your 

15 


The  Lone   Furrow 


sister  is  in  here,  Robert — for  God's  sake  go  home,  boy; 
Jean's  in  sore  trouble !  " 

My  appeal  shamed  the  boy — sobered  him. 

"Sorry,  Doctor — awf'ly  sorry!"  he  said,  repentantly. 
"Poor  Jean!  Munro's  a  sweep !  " 

"Hush-h-h!"  I  admonished.  "Go,  Robert;  come  and 
see  your  sister  to-morrow — do,  please  do." 

The  boy  seemed  to  understand,  for  he  said :  "  I  wanted 
to  see  Jean  bad  to-night — I  wanted  to  tell  her  something 
'bout  that  sweep.  I'll  come  to-morrow.  Good  night,  Doc." 

I  walked  home  with  Teacher  and  we  talked  about  this 
dominant,  simple  going  away  of  one  man  that  seemed  des- 
tined to  enshadow  our  lives.  It  was  really  the  absence  of 
known  reason  for  Minister's  going,  the  paucity  of  clew  that, 
to  my  mind,  made  it  difficult  to  trace  him,  or  to  console 
Jean.  "What  do  they  say?"  I  asked. 

"  Horrible  insinuations  chiefly — they  drag  in  Malcolm 
Bain's  name." 

"Malcolm  Bain!     Good  heavens!" 

She  nodded.  "  You  see,  Dr.  Cameron,  their  hinting  at 
a  thing  like  that  proves  that  they  don't  know  the  real  rea- 
son, whatever  it  is.  Perhaps  it's  just  the  mysterious  ways 
of  Providence,"  she  continued  with  pious  introspection.  "  It 
may  be  that  Minister  was  called  upon  to  sacrifice  himself 
to  wake  up  the  sleepers — to  rouse  fresh  interest  in  church 
matters." 

Here  was  a  curious  example  of  centralized  thought.  To 
the  little  woman,  her  mind  running  in  somewhat  narrowed 
grooves,  it  was  more  of  a  structural  edifice,  the  shrine,  God's 
tabernacle  wherein  his  worshipers  foregathered,  that  ap- 
pealed to  her  as  a  saving  power,  rather  than  the  intense 

16 


The  Lone  Furrow 


earnestness  of  an  individual  like  Neil  Munro.  Her  tones 
suggested  that  she  would  almost  view  with  equanimity  his 
immolation  if  it  tended  to  a  betterment  of  church  influence. 

"  I  don't  understand,"  I  declared. 

"  Well,  Minister  was  never  the  same  after  his  years  of 
labor  in  the  Indian  field.  I  knew  him  before  he  went  there. 
At  that  time  he  was  a  theologian,  and,  think  as  we  may,  it's 
theology,  ponderous  theology  that  holds  the  Presbyterians 
together.  Dullness  may  try  them  a  bit,  but  they're  a  patient 
stock,  and  dullness  is  never  dangerous.  If  they  have  nothing 
to  quarrel  about  they  can't  split  up  into  factions,  and  they're 
prone  to  take  sides.  There  never  was  a  less  gifted  man 
than  George  Douglas,  and  he  shepherded  this  flock  for  fifteen 
years,  with  never  a  lost  sheep." 

Again  Teacher's  point  of  view,  which  was  an  absolute 
mirroring  of  Kirk  philosophy,  that  so  long  as  a  man  sat  in 
the  shadow  of  the  Church  he  was  not  a  lost  sheep,  no  matter 
what  dearth  of  Godliness  was  in  him. 

"  But  surely  Minister  Munro  was  all  for  the  betterment 
of  his  people,"  I  expostulated. 

"  He  meant  to  be — in  fact,  he  was  overzealous.  Some- 
thing came  over  him  in  that  pagan  land,  India.  Haven't 
you  noticed  his  sermons?  Perhaps  you  wouldn't  have, 
though  " — this  was  an  unconscious  reflection  upon  my  sup- 
posed lack  of  interest,  I  took  it.  "  I  mean,"  Teacher 
continued,  "  that  he  appeared  to  be  giving  us  his  own  con- 
victions and  interpretations  of  God's  ordinations." 

"  But  wasn't  that  what  he  was  for — a  spiritual  leader  ?  " 

"  No,  not  at  all.  He  would  have  achieved  more  as  a 
spiritually  inspired  interpreter  of  the  Law ;  more  of  the  Bible, 
of  God  as  pictured  in  God's  Word,  that  is  what  a  minister 


The  Lone  Furrow 


should  be.  There  was  something  wrong " — she  said  this 
with  an  insistent  rising  inflection  in  her  voice — "  Minister's 
sermon  last  Sabbath  was  horrible.  Not  to  me,  perhaps,"  she 
added  reflectively,  "  for  I  could  see  in  his  eyes  that  his  soul 
was  in  anguish,  and  I  was  full  of  sympathy,  but  it  was 
reactionary — it  widened  the  breach  in  the  Church.  I  just 
went  home  and  prayed  for  the  man." 

"  You  should  have  prayed  for  the  congregation,"  I  said 
crossly.  "  They  want  a  sermon  of  incense,  an  unctuous 
anointment,  not  the  wrath  of  the  righteous." 

"  But  if  he  were  in  the  right,"  she  questioned,  "  why 
did  the  Lord  call  upon  him  to  depart  like  this?  " 

I  was  dumfounded.  What  an  extraordinarily  unchari- 
table thing  was  this  form  of  religion  that  should  have  been 
all  charitableness!  And  from  Teacher,  too,  a  woman  I  had 
looked  upon  as  the  most  gentle  creature  in  the  world !  Just 
blind  she  was,  seeing  nothing  but  the  material  welfare  of 
formalism. 

"  I'm  sorry  you  take  this  view  of  it,"  I  said.  "  Min- 
ister and  Jean  will  need  all  their  friends  in  this  hour  of 
trial." 

This  appeal  acted  upon  Teacher  as  though  she  had  sud- 
denly been  transformed  into  another  person.  We  were 
standing  at  the  gate  of  Teacher's  little  home;  her  head 
drooped  on  one  of  the  square-topped  gate  posts,  and  she 
sobbed  bitterly. 

"  You  had  better  go  in,"  I  said,  "  you'll  catch  cold." 

I  walked  back  pondering  over  that  curious  thing  char- 
acter, that  like  a  weather  vane  holds  straight  into  the  teeth 
of  the  bitter  gale,  and  sways  and  turns  foolishly  in  an  idle 
summer  breeze. 

18 


CHAPTER   II 

HAT  day  I  belied  my  intent  to  hold  aloof 
from  all  that  was  not  my  business  by  stirring 
up  the  Elders,  and  penning  the  personals  that 
were  to  go  forth  to  the  papers.  I  was  wish- 
ing that  Malcolm  Bain  would  come  to  the 
Hedge  for  a  talk  over  the  mystery. 

The  Memsahib  had  said  Malcolm  would  come,  for  he 
was  a  gaunt  Scottish  Don  Quixote,  tilting  at  the  windmills 
of  sorrow,  and  with  a  strong  unbreakable  spear  always 
couched  in  the  battles  of  the  weak. 

Malcolm's  father,  old  Hugh  Bain,  had  tilled  the  strong 
clay  soil  of  four  goodly  farms  with  such  thrifty  vehemence 
that  when  he  died  there  was  an  ample  sufficiency  for 
the  son. 

Among  other  antique  flitches  of  the  Highland  senti- 
ment Bain  the  elder  had  brought  from  Scotland  was  a  desire 
to  have  a  son  in  the  ministry.  "  Just  a  grand  thought, 
man !  "  And  so  Malcolm  had  been  sped  along  this  high 
trajectory  which  carried  him  to  a  fair  altitude  in  a  colle- 
giate way,  and  then,  all  at  once,  and  to  the  aspiring  father's 
intense  chagrin,  Malcolm  just  dropped  back  to  earth  into 
a  peculiar  mundane  rut  of  his  own  fashioning. 

19 


The  Lone  Furrow 


When  the  father  died  the  son  leased  the  farms,  and 
devoted  his  energies  to  the  vocation  that  he  thought  suited 
him  best,  and  which  the  villagers  declared  was  no  vocation 
at  all,  "  Just  a  shilly-shallying  wi'  life." 

Physically  Malcolm  was  almost  a  giant  in  stature,  and 
absolutely  so  in  strength.  The  physical  strength  was  ap- 
parent in  the  huge  chest,  the  straight  massive  neck,  and  the 
arms  that  corded  muscle  caused  to  hang  in  an  ellipse  at  his 
side  as  he  walked ;  they  were  like  the  curved  sides  of  a  paren- 
thesis enclosing  the  story  of  his  physical  abundance. 

These  things  of  exterior  predominance  Bain  could  not 
hide,  but  his  diffident  reserve  was  a  wall  that  had  preserved 
his  mental  force,  to  me,  as  to  the  others,  a  terra  incognita. 
It  was  only  later  through  our  endeavor  to  find  the  miss- 
ing minister  that  I  found  way  through  this  barricade,  to 
revel  in  the  abundant  richness  of  Bain's  beautiful  mind.  At 
this  time  he  was  seemingly  engrossed  in  an  arduous  super- 
vision ot  the  church  and  the  weather.  Areas  of  low  pressure, 
and  waves  of  heat  and  cold  he  held  at  the  tips  of  his  huge 
fingers;  and  in  the  Kirk,  burning  questions,  large  and  small, 
followed  the  tortuous  course  upward  from  the  congregation 
and  through  the  elders  to  the  pinnacle  of  his  wise  arbi- 
tration. 

Once  the  Memsahib  had  maintained  to  me  quietly  that 
Malcolm's  life  had  been  changed  when  Jean  Craig  became 
the  wife  of  Neil  Munro.  Malcolm  was  not  a  man  to  give 
a  sign  either  in  the  matter  of  hearts  or  estate;  so  I  looked 
upon  the  Memsahib's  theory  as  being  purely  intuitive. 

But  this  day,  when  Malcolm  came  down  the  walk  and 
topped  the  little  gate  with  his  huge  bulk,  and  neglected 
entirely  the  great  signs  there  were  in  the  sky,  with  its 

2O 


The  Lone  Furrow 


tangled  clouds,  for  a  dissertation  upon  the  probabilities,  I 
knew  that  he  was  deeply  wrought  up  over  something. 

He  came  in,  and  we  took  our  pipes  to  the  bench  on  the 
lawn,  with  a  Celtic  slowness  of  beginning  the  real  issue. 

"  Is  there  no  word  of  Minister  yet?  "  I  asked  presently. 

Malcolm  waved  his  pipe  in  the  air,  expressing  the  vacu- 
ity of  everything. 

"  What  are  they  saying  about  it — what  do  you  think 
yourself,  Malcolm  ?  "  He  was  a  man  requiring  incentive 
to  speak. 

"  There's  always  been  a  split  in  the  Kirk  over  Neil 
Munro,"  Malcolm  said  thoughtfully. 

From  his  manner  he  might  have  been  addressing  the  bowl 
of  his  pipe. 

"  I  didn't  know  of  that,"  I  expressed. 

"  Aye,  I  believe  you,"  Malcolm  said  dryly,  curling  his 
lips  inwardly  with  a  smack  of  keen  satisfaction.  It  was 
a  reproof  to  my  derelict  attendance.  Then  he  added, 
"  Scotch  bodies  discuss  these  things  among  themselves,  as  a 
rule."  He  was  letting  me  down  a  little. 

"  I'm  sorry  over  this  queer  doing  of  Minister's;  it'll 
give  the  other  party  a  chance.  They're  mostly  the  stiff 
Highlanders  from  the  Scotch  Block,  and  they'll  grab  the 
opportunity  as  they  grab  everything  else." 

"  But  Munro  was  a  good  preacher,"  I  objected ;  "  an 
eloquent  man." 

"  Aye,  that  was  one  of  his  faults." 

"  He  tried  to  improve  the  village ;  he  was  bitter  against 
the  drinking." 

"  Yes,  he  made  many  a  mistake." 

"  Surely  that  wasn't  a  fault?  " 
21 


"  Not  if  he  had  just  introduced  it  in  his  sermons;  but  you 
see,  Doctor,  he  tried  to  make  them  live  up  to  it.  Oh,  he 
made  lots  of  enemies;  he  was  too  young  to  have  the  ser- 
pent's wisdom.  You  see,  in  the  Kirk  we're  for  a  lot  of 
religion,  but  broadly  put,  man,  broadly  put.  Men  are  all 
sinful ;  we  accept  that  as  a  matter  of  belief,  but  not  in  our 
own  households,  if  you  understand.  And  Minister  Munro 
was  for  nailing  sinners  to  the  cross.  Have  you  heard  what 
they're  saying?  " 

"  No,  and  I  don't  want  to." 

"  Well,  you'd  best  build  a  high  wall  round  the  Hedge 
at  once  then." 

"  For  God's  sake,  Bain,  we  must  keep  vicious  rumors 
from — from " 

"  From  Jean,"  Bain  said,  and  the  metallic  cynicism  had 
gone  from  his  voice. 

"  You'll  stand  by  her,  Bain,  I  know." 

"  Aye,  I'll  do  that  if  I  fall  away  from  the  Kirk.  I'm 
a  busy  man,  I  haven't  much  time  to  spare,  but  I'll  take  on 
myself  to  find  the  Minister  and  bring  him  back — if  he's 
alive." 

"Why  do  you  say  that?"  I  asked  petulantly.  "Of 
course  he's  alive — why  should  he  be  dead?  " 

It  was  strange  how  I  resented  this  implied  conviction 
on  Bain's  part,  when  I  had  held  the  same  myself  in  speak- 
ing to  the  Memsahib. 

"  Aye,  you're  right — why  should  he  be  dead." 

Bain  repeated  my  words  in  a  flat  tone,  almost  devoid 
of  interest,  and  I  knew  that  in  his  mind  he  was  saying, 
"  He  is  dead." 

There  was  no  reason  for  this  belief  that  was  just  an 
22 


The  Lone  Furrow 


impression;  yet  in  reason  there  was  only  a  very  horrible 
explanation  for  the  Minister's  complete  disappearance. 

"  They  say  a  man  saw  Minister  at  Dundee  the  day  he 
disappeared,"  Bain  said  presently. 

"  That's  on  the  way  to  the  States — likely  he's  gone  there 
for  a  visit." 

"  It's  on  the  way  to  Niagara,  too,"  Bain  croaked. 

"What  of  that?" 

"  Yon  cauldron  is  like  a  devil's  magnet,  it  draws  ill- 
balanced  men  like  the  sun  draws  frost  from  a  tree.  Here 
comes  Donald  MacKay,"  Bain  continued.  "  I'm  afraid 
he's  standing  in  with  the  meddlesome  party  that'll  be 
clamoring  for  a  new  minister  before  the  pulpit  is  fair 
cold." 

Bain  was  scanning  the  heavens.  "  I  must  be  going," 
he  said;  "there's  rain  in  that  cloud.  If  it  comes  south  of 
the  mountain  we'll  get  a  wetting  sure." 

"There's  no  word  o'  the  Minister,  is  there?"  com- 
menced MacKay  when  he  was  well  within  earshot. 

"  There's  a  deal  of  talk  if  there  isn't  word,"  answered 
Malcolm  dryly. 

"  Have  they  dragged  the  pond?  "  asked  MacKay. 

"  Drag  your  grandmother!  Why  should  they  drag  the 
pond  ? "  and  Bain  strode  away,  his  boots  hammering  the 
board  sidewalk  ominously. 

"  I've  heerd  o'  old  maids  being  cranky,"  grunted  Mac- 
Kay,  "  but  Bain  should  ha'e  been  married  on  some  good 
woman  to  keep  the  milk  o'  human  kindness  warm  in  his 
breast.  He's  just  sociable  as  long  as  you'll  talk  aboot  the 
weather  to  him.  My!  but  the  town's  lookin'  lonesome  this 
mornin'.  One  could  fire  a  cannon  doon  the  main  street  and 

23 


The  Lone  Furrow 


no  touch  a  soul.  Time'll  drag,  I'm  fearin';  now  the  Skip- 
per's took,  the  fishing's  not  worth  the  trying;  and  if  Min- 
ister doesna  come  back  there'll  be  no  service  the  morrow, 
eh?" 

But  I  was  in  no  mood  for  his  garrulous  tongue.  So  I 
put  on  my  hat,  saying,  "  I'll  jog  to  the  office  with  you  for 
my  mail,  Postmaster,"  and  drew  him  away  from  the  Hedge, 
launching  him  into  lament  over  the  worry  that  had  come 
to  the  Kirk  through  the  vagaries  of  Munro. 

MacKay  jabbed  vindictively  with  his  big  stick  at  every 
third  plank  of  the  walk,  as  though  he  spitted  a  MacLean 
or  a  MacDougall  at  each  thrust. 

"  Minister's  gone  as  he  came,"  he  said.  "  He  was  a 
shaughlin  body  at  best.  I'm  not  sayin'  this,  mind  you,  like 
some  of  they  ithers,  because  the  poor  body's  back  is  turned, 
for  from  the  first  I  maintained  that  his  depth  was  no  pro- 
foondity.  I  twigged,  mind  you,  man,  that  when  we  didna 
understand  him,  he  no  understood  himself.  It  was  mostly 
vaporings;  his  theology  was  as  different  from  what  the 
Kirk  was  accustomed  to  as  them  newfangled,  enamel  pots 
are  from  the  solid  iron  that  oor  mithers  used,  and  didna 
blister  an'  crack  at  a  bit  o'  heat." 

"  It  was  just  Minister's  way  of  trying  to  wake  up  the 
church  sleepers,"  I  argued,  somewhat  crossly.  "  They  were 
just  opiated  with  a  sense  of  their  holiness.  Their  own  sins 
were  small " 

"  Aye,  an'  mean,  too,"  MacKay  interjected. 

"  Yes,  mean ;  but  they  fancied  that  by  praying  hard  and 
regular  attendance  they  could  show  a  balance  on  the  right 
side  of  the  religious  register,  and  were  safe  for  a  squeeze 
into  Heaven." 

24 


The  Lone  Furrow 


"  God  forbid  that  such  as  the  MacLaughlins  should  be 
discovered  yonder;  an'  there  are  ithers  o'  the  same  ilk." 

"  Well,  Munro  was  all  for  the  young.  I  believe  he 
thought  the  elders  too  firmly  cast  for  him  to  do  much  one 
way  or  the  other  with  them.  But  he  sought  to  wake  them 
to  a  sense  of  their  responsibility  for  the  sake  of  the  sons 
and  the  daughters." 

"  Aye,  he  was  always  harping  on  the  idea  that  we  are 
the  custodians  o'  ithers'  morals — every  man  a  brother's 
keeper.  Fergus  Black's  sin  in  takin'  a  drop  o'  whisky  was 
responsible  for  Dan  MacLaughlin's  lickin'  Sandy  MacDou- 
gall's  John.  It  was  all  because  of  the  evil  example  set  by 
Elder  Black  according  to  Minister.  I'll  tell  you,  Doctor, 
at  once,  I  dinna  take  stock  in  the  missions;  pagans  are  pa- 
gans, and  Neil  Munro,  I'm  thinkin',  did  little  in  India  in  the 
way  o'  salvation  but  come  by  these  queer  shaughlin'  ideas 
himself.  And  Jean  Craig  brought  this  all  on  herself  by 
marryin'  him." 

I  was  glad  to  see  an  excuse  in  my  box — a  letter,  so  I 
thumbed  the  glass  front  till  MacKay  went  behind  and 
passed  the  missive  through  the  wicket.  Even  though  it 
turned  out  to  be  but  a  bill  that  I  opened,  it  did  not  dampen 
my  feeling  of  relief.  I  knew  the  Postmaster's  animosity 
was  less  of  religious  objection  than  because  his  own  lout 
of  a  son,  Peter,  had  sought  Jean  in  marriage,  animated,  I 
firmly  believed,  by  the  father's  knowledge  that  Jean  had  a 
fair  dower. 

"  What  are  they  saying?  "  the  Memsahib  asked  when  I 
reached  home. 

"  The  Christians  are  rowing  among  themselves  already," 
I  answered. 

3  25 


The  Lone  Furrow 


A  flush  spread  over  her  face;  she  was  angry  in  defense 
of  the  Church. 

"Whom  did  you  see?"  she  asked. 

"  Malcolm  Bain." 

"  Well,  he's  a  good  Christian  man,  anyway,  and  he'll  take 
the  Minister's  part.  He'd  lay  down  his  life  for  Jean,  Mal- 
colm would,  I  think." 

"  But  that  may  only  complicate  matters;  he'd  be  a  dan- 
gerous sort  of  knight  perhaps." 

"  No,  you  hardly  understand  Bain's  character.  Honor 
and  nobility  of  spirit  possess  his  very  being.  He  wanted 
to  marry  Jean  years  ago — he  worshiped  the  ground  she 
walked  on." 

"  She  should  have  wedded  him." 

"  She  would  have  done  so,  husband,  had  it  been  the 
Lord's  will." 

"  She  wouldn't  have  come  by  this  trouble — Malcolm 
would  never  have  deserted  her." 

"  You  are  speaking  hastily,  husband,"  the  Memsahib 
said,  with  gentle  reproach.  "  We  must  just  wait  and  see 
what  the  Lord's  will  is.  But  I  tell  you  this,  that  Jean 
will  stand  her  trial  without  complaint,  and  it's  not  for  us 
to  quarrel  with  what  is." 

Somehow  an  answer  did  not  come  handily  to  my  lips,  not 
a  proper  answer  for  a  wroman  speaking  in  faith,  at  any  rate, 
so  I  was  almost  glad  when  I  heard  a  voice  hailing  me  from 
the  Hedge  wicket. 

There  was  the  scuttle  of  a  white  something  from 
the  hall,  with  a  clamorous  protest  in  staccato  yaps  of 
defiance. 

With  my  eyes  shut  I  wrould  have  known  that  Blitz's 
26 


The  Lone  Furrow 


one  aversion  in  the  whole  village,  Robert  Craig,  stood  at  the 
threshold. 

"  Say,  Doc,  call  off  your  dog,"  Robert  said  mockingly. 

Blitz,  having  registered  his  protest,  turned  disdainfully, 
and,  at  my  request,  came  back  to  the  verandah,  snarling  his 
utter  contempt  for  Jean's  brother,  who,  swinging  carelessly 
through  the  gate,  loafed  to  the  lawn  bench. 

Instinctively  I  studied  his  walk;  his  legs  always  had 
a  barometrical  bearing  upon  his  mental  condition.  I  knew, 
as  I  took  a  seat  at  his  side,  from  subtle  manifestations,  that 
he  was  still  somewhat  in  the  over-night  effects  of  his 
drinking. 

It  was  strange  to  be  thinking  of  his  actual  degradation 
while  looking  at  the  exquisite  modeling  of  his  face.  He  was 
beautiful ;  he  had  usurped  much  of  the  woman's  beauty  that 
should  have  been  Jean's.  Their  mother  had  been  the  most 
beautiful  woman  in  all  the  province.  Aye,  and  here  it  was 
again,  line  on  line,  ineffable  sweetness  and  ivory-tinted  fore- 
head, all  in  the  face  of  the  boy  with  the  wealth  of  hair 
that  was  something  between  silver  and  gold.  The  too- 
rounded  contour  of  the  chin  that  shot  forward  to  cradle 
a  dimple,  babbled  about  the  weakness  that  should  have  gone 
to  the  gentler  side  of  the  house. 

Irreverently  I  thought,  in  a  retrospective  cast  of  mind, 
that  it  was  a  curious  misplacement  of  God's  scheme  of 
creation. 

The  boy  must  have  been  studying  some  wrinkles  of 
thought  that  were  a  habit  of  mine,  for  he  said,  "  Well, 
Doc,  have  you  joined  them  ?  " 

"  Joined  what — who  ?  " 

"  The  Pharisees — the  sycophants.  You  look  like  'em, 
27 


The  Lone  Furrow 


one  of  the  mourners.  But  you're  all  right,  old  man;  you 
didn't  roast  Neil  when  he  was  here  like  the  others,  and 
then  pull  a  long  face  when  he  flew  his  kite." 

"Don't  talk  that  way,  Robert,"  I  counseled;  "think 
of  Jean,  and  what  she  suffers." 

"  Yes,  she'll  suffer.  She'll  wash  the  feet  of  that  hypo- 
crite and  dry  them  with  her  hair — every  day  she'll  do  that, 
because  she's  so  good  herself  that  she  doesn't  know  a  counter- 
feit from  the  real  coin." 

"You're  not  turning  against  Neil,  Robert?"  I  pleaded. 

"  No;  I  turned.  He  was  a  sweet  one  to  forbid  them  giv- 
ing me  a  drink  at  the  hotel,  wasn't  he?  " 

"  He  did  it  for  your  own  sake,  Robert,  and  for  your 
sister's  sake." 

"Well,  what  about  himself?" 

"What  about  him,  Robert?"  I  asked  vacuously. 

"  Yes,  what  about  him — nothing.  The  praying  hypo- 
crites knew  nothing,  and  I,  Doc — '  poor  Robert,'  as  he  used 
to  call  me — know  nothing.  There's  a  big  query  written  at 
the  end  of  his  name  in  every  house  in  lona,  and  when  they 
ask  me  I  answer — nothing\  " 

"  If  you  know  anything  you  should  tell  it — anything 
is  better  than  suspense." 

"  Is  it — anything?" 

"  I  think  so." 

"  I  don't,  so  I  say — nothing." 

What  a  curious  mixture  of  weakness  and  strength  was 
the  boy.  I  contrasted  him  with  Malcolm.  If  Malcolm 
had  known  anything,  and  deemed  it  wise  to  smother  the 
knowledge,  he  would  have  smothered  even  his  thoughts;  but 
the  boy  must  boast,  like  a  weakling,  of  some  knowledge 

28 


The  Lone  Furrow 


that  was  power,  and  then  doggedly  claim  its  sole  guardian- 
ship. 

"  Very  well,"  I  said  impatiently,  "  but  you'll  only  add 
to  Jean's  misery  by  drinking  now,  Robert." 

"  Doc,  you're  a  Christian  Scientist.  But  you're  only 
half  a  Christian  and  no  scientist  at  all.  You've  got  the 
cause  and  the  effect  playing  cart  before  the  horse — it's  this 
accursed  thing  that  started  me  off.  It  makes  me  boil  when 
I  think  of " 

The  boy  stopped  and  flicked  angrily  at  the  lilacs  with  his 
cane. 

"Of  what,  Robert?" 

"  Of  Hell  and  its  agents  posing  as  sky  pilots.  And  lec- 
ture !  Lord !  you'd  think  that  howling  in  the  church  squared 
everything!  " 

The  boy  was  up,  and  striding  for  the  gate,  angry  with 
the  insufficiency  of  the  whole  Christian  faith,  laid  out  weak 
and  panting  by  his  sophistical  babble. 

"  Hold  on,  Robert!  "  I  pleaded;  "come  in  and  talk  to 
Jean." 

He  turned,  and  taking  a  step  back  we  met.  He  scanned 
my  face  closely;  perhaps  he  found  pitying  sympathy  there, 
for  he  verged  to  a  tone  of  confessional  dependence.  "  I 
can't  do  it;  I'm  shaky,"  he  whispered.  "I'm  shaky  now, 
but  I'll  come  back  and  see  Jean.  I'll  come  back,  and  I'm 
going  to  cut  it  out,  sure.  I'm  going  to  quit !  " 

He  was  off  before  I  could  reply. 

Perhaps  the  new-born  tragedy  in  Jean's  life  was  no 
greater  than  the  inherited  one  in  her  brother's.  That  was 
the  dreadful  mockery  of  the  boy's  words  when  he  said,  "  I'm 
going  to  cut  it  out."  It  was  a  taint,  a  living  sore  kept 

29 


The  Lone  Furrow 


alive  by  the  corrosive  of  insatiate  desire — the  curse  of  Hani, 
undying,  because  it  was  still  a  thing  of  levity — the  drink. 
The  boy's  father  had  died — rather  had  ended  a  living  death 
in  horrible  alcoholic  dissolution.  I  remembered  him  well, 
Andrew  Craig.  What  the  father  had  inherited  of  alco- 
holic desire  I  know  not,  he  never  spoke  of  it.  Perhaps  he 
had  just  been  caught  in  the  man-trap  at  the  corner,  the 
tavern,  that  low-shouldered  corral  of  bricks  and  mortar  that 
somehow  I  likened  to  the  stockaded  elephant  Kheddas  of 
India,  or  the  buffalo  corrals  of  the  western  plains  wherein 
Indians  slaughtered  the  vast  prairie  herds. 

To  me  the  bait  in  this  place  was  more  repulsive  than 
alluring;  examples  of  its  destructive  force  were  so  ever 
evident.  The  whisky  soaks — as  the  habitual  bar  loafers  were 
called — were  always  about.  And  the  tavern  itself!  How 
could  its  bare  wooden  floors,  its  long  oaken  bar,  its  walls, 
unadorned  except  by  cheap  lithographs  and  innumerable 
bottles,  allure  or  hold  any  man  who  had  any  semblance 
of  a  home.  Surely  the  poorest,  most  humble  cottage  in  lona 
should  hold  more  of  comfort  or  human  companionship.  And 
there  was  always  some  wrangling,  uncouth,  foul-mouthed, 
drink-enraged  workman  declaiming  against  his  master,  or 
the  country,  or  the  government,  perhaps  against  his  God. 
A  possibility  of  shunning  part  of  this  intolerable  element 
was  afforded  by  little,  square,  dim-lighted  rooms  that  were 
like  cells  in  a  jail.  It  would  be  in  one  of  these  minor 
spider  parlors  that  Craig  the  father,  and  now  Craig  the 
son,  would  sit  beside  a  little  table  and  drink.  Far  better 
the  open  bar,  for,  in  weak  moral  cowardice,  each  member 
of  the  little  party  must  keep  his  end  up — must  call  for  an- 
other round. 

30 


The  Lone  Furrow 


Altogether  it  was  a  problem  stupendous,  beyond  the 
power  even  of  the  Kirk.  I  had  held  aloof  from  it,  knowing 
an  incompetency  even  to  advise.  But  isolated,  neither  of  it 
nor  actively  antagonistic,  I  was  like  an  observer  of  a  game  of 
chess,  the  weak  moves  from  both  sides  were  apparent. 

I  had  watched  Neil  Munro's  fierce  assault  upon  this 
dominant  evil.  He  had  been  a  Ghazzi,  a  Peter  the  Hermit, 
quivering  with  passion,  exhorting,  pleading,  denouncing, 
calling  the  wrath  of  God  upon  the  apathy  of  those  who 
mingled  their  whisky  and  their  religion,  seeking  to  vitiate 
the  distaste  of  each  with  the  other,  swallowing  the  blend 
with  unction.  And  what  result?  Deplorable. 

A  thought  of  how  Neil's  sensitive  soul  must  have  known 
the  depression  of  unavail  fell  upon  me,  and  from  that,  fol- 
lowing the  gruesome  mood,  recurred  Malcolm  Bain's  awful 
hint  of  Niagara.  Had  Neil  committed  suicide?  I  drove 
the  suggestion  into  the  sod  with  my  heel,  tramped  on  it;  it 
couldn't  be!  He  held  his  responsibility  to  his  Maker  too 
majestically  for  that.  But  a  man's  mind,  introspectively 
putting  the  case,  no  sooner  downs  a  sophistry  than  it  is  up 
again  in  new  form.  Perhaps  Minister  had  realized  what 
Teacher  had  strongly  hinted  at,  that  his  labors,  too  earnest, 
had  but  weakened  the  religious  structure,  caused  the  schism 
in  the  Kirk.  Patently  it  had.  Instead  of  standing  shoulder 
to  shoulder  against  the  Evil  One's  strongest  force,  the  con- 
gregation had  split  up — had  come  to  squabbling  over  the 
plan  of  battle;  half  holding  for  the  somnolent,  undisturb- 
ing  discourse  such  as  had  held  them  together  during  Doug- 
lass's fifteen  years  of  ministry;  and  the  others  all  for  bat- 
tling for  the  souls  of  the  young  men  under  the  evangelistic 
banner  of  Minister  Munro. 

31 


The  Lone   Furrow 


And  Neil  was  certainly  a  modern  Paul,  as  enthusiastic- 
ally fearless.  Ah!  but  just  that,  the  words  of  Agrippa, 
"  Almost  thou  persuadest  me  to  become  a  Christian." 
There  was  a  dozen — a  hundred  Agrippas  in  the  congrega- 
tion when  they  should  have  been  absolute  Christians.  That 
was  it,  almost — the  word  that  meant  everything  in  the 
Devil's  tally. 

At  this  point  in  my  thought  the  gate  clicked.  The 
Agnostic  stood  there  and  leaned  his  shoulders  across  the 
upper  bar.  "Have  I  disturbed  you,  Doctor?"  he  said  in 
his  quiet  voice,  catching  my  attention.  "  Were  you  busy?  " 

"  I  was  heavily  in  the  mysteries  of  religion,"  I  an- 
swered. "  Come  in;  I'm  glad  to  be  pulled  out  of  waters  too 
deep  for  me." 

"  There's  little  mystery  about  religion,"  the  Agnostic 
said,  as  I  made  room  for  him  on  the  bench ;  "  Christ  simpli- 
fied it  much.  It's  just  an  intensifying  of  human  love — I'm 
not  saying  but  that  there's  mystery  galore  over  the  many 
doctrines  in  the  Church  interpretations  of  the  law  of  crea- 
tion, or  of  God,  or  Pan,  or  whatever  else  we  label  it.  But 
what  started  you  on  such  a  matter?  " 

"  When  you've  looked  on  the  face  of  one  dead,  one 
you've  known  intimately,  your  mind  carries  the  image  away 
with  it,  and  sets  the  pale  mask  up  where  sometimes  we  want 
to  place  the  living." 

"  Yes,  man,  I  know !  "  The  Agnostic's  voice  was  a  gasp 
of  pain. 

I  could  have  bitten  my  foolish  tongue,  for  his  wife  was 
dead  but  a  year  ago,  and  I  had  forgotten. 

"  I  mean  that  Robert  Craig  was  here  a  bit  ago,  and  we 
were  speaking  of  Neil  Munro,"  I  said  hastily ;  "  that  way 

32 


The  Lone  Furrow 


came  the  train  of  thought.  I  was  thinking  of  a  soul's 
death." 

"  Aye,  there  may  be  such  a  thing,  or  worse;  and  if  there 
is,  I'm  afraid  the  poor  lad's  in  for  it.  According  to  religion 
he  is,  beyond  doubt — the  sins  of  the  father  exacting  the 
penalty;  and  his  chances  of  reformation  are  bad  when  Neil 
Munro  could  do  nothing  with  him.  But  as  for  the  other, 
Neil  himself,  it's  different.  He  just  went  down  before  his 
friends — the  worst  kind  of  enemies  when  they  choose.  Still 
I'd  rather  take  chances  with  him  in  his  future — that  is  al- 
lowing that  there's  a  good  and  a  bad  future  according  to 
belief — than  I  would  wish  to  hobnob  with  half  of  that 
body,"  and  he  nodded  toward  the  graystone  pile  across  the 
way.  "  You'll  find  less  of  denunciation  in  holy  writ  against 
the  beaten  down  than  against  the  unctious,  self-complacent 
good." 

"  Have  you  any  idea,  Major  " — that  was  the  Agnostic's 
name  to  us  dwellers  at  the  Hedge ;  to  the  village  he  was  the 
Agnostic,  on  what  ground  was  not  apparent,  for  he  was  rich 
in  his  own  conception  of  religion — "  why  Minister  disap- 
peared so  mysteriously,  or  at  all  ?  " 

"  Just  a  surmise ;  that's  all  anyone  has — unless  the  poor 
wife  knows." 

"She  doesn't.     What's  your  surmise?" 

"  Defeated — and  he  took  it  to  heart.  His  judgment 
must  have  given  way;  he  was  a  dreamer  at  best;  he  thought 
that  God's  intent,  explained,  was  a  power  stronger  than 
Bacchus  and  Elder  Holyman  " — the  Major  jerked  his  thumb 
angrily  first  at  the  tavern  and  then  at  the  tabernacle. 

"  You  see,"  he  continued,  "  the  village  is  dominated  by 
two  interests — that's  all  there  is  here."  He  wagged  his 

33 


The  Lone   Furrow 


head  from  one  side  to  the  other,  indicating  the  tvvo  structures 
of  such  seeming  divergent  interests.  "  People  go  to  either 
one  or  the  other — some  go  to  both ;  they're  the  very  danger- 
ous ones — the  man  on  the  fence  is  the  unknown  quantity. 
Neil  knew  all  this.  What  Peter,  or  Paul,  or  Simon,  or 
Noah,  or  Moses  did  was  not  so  important  in  his  sight  as 
what  men  were  doing  in  lona.  But  the  men  of  lona  " — the 
Agnostic  frowned  at  the  church — "  would  rather  listen  to 
the  shortcomings  or  the  grandeur  of  these  ancients  than  to 
a  rebuke  of  their  own  doings.  I've  seen  it.  I've  taken  cog- 
nizance of  the  fathers  mounting  those  wooden  steps  to  com- 
mune with  God — some  of  them  for  a  long  sleep  of  it  in  the 
kirk  over  the  sermon — while  their  sons  were  going  to  the 
devil  by  the  fast  express  of  the  bottle.  How  many  young 
men  of  the  village,  Doctor,  come  out  worth  the  while  of 
their  being  born — ten  per  cent?  That's  the  way  Munro 
looked  at  it,  and  how  he  fought  it.  He  started  the  Athletic 
Club;  he  took  the  smaller  boys  and  drilled  them  as  soldiers, 
buying  the  wooden  guns  out  of  his  own  pocket;  he  organ- 
ized a  cricket  club,  a  literary  association,  debates,  and  all  the 
rest  of  it,  and  what  came  of  it?  The  MacLeans  turned 
lona  into  a  Glenco  for  the  MacDonalds;  the  MacRaes  way- 
laid the  Kerrs,  two  to  one,  and  battered  them ;  they  were  all 
like  the  states  of  ancient  Greece  that  took  each  other  by  the 
throats — and  the  elders  held  aloof  and  pitied  '  daft  Neil.' 
He  worked  too  feverishly;  India  had  sapped  his  vitality,  I 
think." 

"  And  the  pity  of  it  is  there  are  ugly  stories  going,"  I 
said. 

"  I  haven't  heard  them ;  but  I  know  the  townies  well  and 
I'm  sure  Minister's  condemned.  He's  like  a  good  many 

34 


The  Lone  Furrow 


others  that  have  attacked  the  national  industry,  pastime, 
and  cherished  friend  of  the  Empire — Drink.  Nine-tenths 
of  the  trouble  is  the  treating,"  he  continued.  "  I  like  a 
good  beefsteak,  but  if,  when  I've  eaten  one,  a  friend  said, 
'  Have  another,  for  companionship,'  I'd  think  him  a  fool, 
and  if  I  ate  it  he'd  think  me  an  ass." 

"  But  what's  to  be  done?  "  I  queried.  "  It's  not  a  one- 
man's  job  anyway,  it's  for  the  legislators." 

"  You're  wrong,  I'm  afraid,"  the  Agnostic  declared ; 
"  they  had  the  '  Scott  Act '  here,  closing  the  bars ;  and  the 
mystery  of  it — the  getting  of  a  drink  on  the  sly,  the  hidden 
jug  in  the  cellar,  like  the  forty  thieves  in  their  leathern 
bottles,  cast  such  an  atmosphere  of  romantic  adventure 
about  the  business  that  the  youths  went  into  it  wholesale. 
There  are  drunkards  to  this  day  that  can  trace  their  novi- 
tiate back  to  the  '  Scott  Act.' 

"  If  a  law  could  be  enforced  for  sending  a  man  to  jail 
for  a  year  for  slitting  his  brother's  throat  with  a  glass  of 
grog,"  he  resumed,  "  it  would  be  a  deuced  good  thing.  In 
spite  of  all  our  wisdom,  our  advancement,  we've  somehow 
got  to  go  back  to  first  principles — the  survival  of  the  fittest; 
drink  and  pray  and  take  chances;  and  my  regards  to  the 
place  of  business  across  the  road." 

With  a  bow  to  the  church,  and  "  good  day  "  to  me,  the 
Agnostic  was  gone. 

I  sat  on  the  bench  for  a  time,  watching  curiously  the  play 
of  the  sunlight  through  the  fretwork  of  maples.  Where 
were  we  drifting  anyway?  I  was  like  a  horse  in  a  bog, 
the  more  I  floundered  the  deeper  I  sank  in  this  slough  of 
thought;  and  as  a  wise  horse  would  have  done  under  the 
circumstances,  I  gave  it  up  and  lay  still.  I  started  playing 

35 


The  Lone  Furrow 


with  Blitz,  pulling  his  tail,  to  the  tune  of  a  childish  thought 
that  perhaps  if  men  pulled  dogs'  tails  more,  and  rearranged 
God's  work  less,  they  would  be  happier. 

Before  I  had  finished  my  writing  that  afternoon,  the 
Memsahib  came  to  the  study  and  drew  me  to  the  window, 
I  saw  Jean,  the  gray  folds  of  her  dress  almost  hidden  in  the 
shower  of  flowers  the  children  were  steadily  pouring  into 
her  lap. 

Perhaps  it  was  the  gold  against  the  gray  that  caused 
the  Memsahib  to  say: 

"  Jean  has  laid  away  all  her  dresses  but  that  somber 
one.  She  is  having  two  others  made  from  the  same  mate- 
rial." 

"  I  don't  like  that,"  I  answered ;  "  it's  depressing.  She'll 
become  melancholic." 

"  No;  it's  just  her  way.  With  her  it  means  constancy. 
She  seems  to  feel  instinctively  that  she  is  to  be  tried  for  many 
days." 

"  How  does  she  know — did  Neil  leave  a  letter?  It's 
all  nonsense  anyway,"  I  added,  impatiently;  "we'll  soon 
know  one  way  or  the  other — Minister  will  be  found  alive, 
or — he'll  be  found.  A  man  can't  hide  himself  like  that  in 
this  busy  world." 

"  You  reason,  husband,  as  if  you  were  laying  out  a  gar- 
den, or  planning  a  book,  or  making  the  rough  sketch  of  a 
landscape ;  those  are  matters  of  limitation ;  this  is  illimitable, 
because  it  is  God's  doing." 

"  It's  the  unregenerate  sleepers  in  the  Church's  doing," 
I  answered  sharply;  "  either  that  or  just  the  mad  act  of  an 
ill-balanced  mind." 

The  Memsahib  didn't  answer  except  by  a  little  sigh  of 
36 


The  Lone  Furrow 


resignation,  which  was  a  tolerant  reproof,  and  I  studied 
Jean's  face  limned  against  the  flowing  background  of  the 
Hedge.  I  hadn't  noticed  before  how  extraordinary  it  was. 
Undoubtedly  it  bore  resemblance  to  the  face  of  the  Madonna 
in  the  memorial  window  which  cut  the  graystone  wall  of 
the  kirk  just  beyond.  The  eyes  were  huge  depths,  pools 
that  held  indefinable  power,  great  eyes,  pleading,  sympa- 
thetic, unchangeable  eyes.  Trying  to  fathom  them  I  lost 
the  play  of  the  sunlight  when  it  turned  to  bronze  the  rebel- 
lious hair.  The  Memsahib's  hand  on  my  arm  recalled  me.  I 
asked  her  the  question  that  had  hung  in  waiting:  "Jean  is 
beautiful,  isn't  she?  Strange  I  never  noticed  it  before!" 

"  Many  men  have,  though,"  the  Memsahib  whispered ; 
"  Malcolm  worshiped  her  in  his  grand,  solemn  way.  And 
I  had  hoped  that  Jean  might  have  cared  for  him — they'd 
have  been  a  noble  couple,  but  '  Dieu  dispose'  " 

"  He  directed  her  love  toward  Neil  Munro,"  I  said 
tentatively. 

"  Not  as  you  think  of  it,  husband.  I  don't  believe  she 
loved  Munro  as  she  might  have  loved — Malcolm,  for  in- 
stance. It  was  purely  spiritual,  her  love  for  Minister." 

"And  the  two  are  separable?" 

"  Sometimes.  They  were  in  Jean's  case.  With  her  it 
was  real  heroism.  No,  it  wasn't  a  sacrifice;  she  was  per- 
fectly happy  over  it,  she  felt  it  was  God's  will.  It  was 
almost  a  purer  thing  than  love  such  as  we  generally  know 
of.  Jean  wanted  to  be  a  Christian." 

"  She  is,"  I  interposed. 

"Yes,  she  is.  She  determined  to  be;  she  thought  that 
a  greater  thing  than  being  just  the  recipient  of  a  man's 
love." 

37 


The  Lone  Furrow 


The  Memsahib  was  discovering  to  me  what  I  had  been 
searching  for  that  lay  so  deep  in  Jean's  wondrous  eyes. 

"  Jean  suffered  agony  over  her  rebellious  thoughts  about 
the  inefficacy  of  God's  power.  I've  always  been  an  elder 
sister  to  her,  and  she  has  cried  to  me  in  bitterness  over  the 
unanswering  of  her  prayers  for  her  father  and  her  brother. 
Simon  Craig  was  a  good  man,  noble  in  thought  and  deed, 
and  yet  Jean  saw  him  drifting,  drifting  to  destruction,  saw 
the  inevitable  doom  of  the  drunkard  throwing  its  black 
shadow  over  his  life.  She  saw  her  brother,  a  boy  with  the 
face  of  a  god  and  the  voice  of  an  angel,  developing  into  a 
dissolute  dipsomaniac.  Once  she  lay  in  my  arms  all  night 
pleading  with  God,  asking  Him  to  take  her  young  life,  be- 
seeching the  father  and  the  son's  Maker  to  give  them 
strength,  to  save  them  from  worse  than  death.  She  cried 
to  me,  and  her  despair  was  dreadful :  '  Paul  said  that  he  died 
daily,  but  I  die  hourly — I  die  every  minute  of  my  life.' 
When  there  was  seemingly  no  answer  to  her  prayers  she 
thought  it  was  because  of  the  very  rebellion  that  was  in  her 
heart  over  the  futility  of  God's  power  against  the  devil  of 
destruction.  Then,  as  you  know,  Neil  Munro  came  from 
the  mission  field  in  India,  and  his  magnetic  earnestness,  the 
soulful  Christianity  that  burned  in  his  impassioned  eyes,  in- 
spired Jean  with  a  love  that  was  wholly  spiritual.  She 
thought  she  saw  a  way  to  throw  herself  into  God's  work,  to 
become  absolutely  a  servant  of  the  Lord.  It  must  have  been 
God's  will,  His  mysterious  way  of  working,  for  Neil  from 
the  very  first  was  in  love  with  Jean.  They  were  married — 
Minister  was  here  but  six  months  when  they  were  married." 

"  Well,  it  looks  to  me  that  if  this  is  God's  plan  it  has 
gone  very  much  awry.  Anyway  the  sacrifice  did  no  good." 

38 


The   Lone  Furrow 


"  It  wasn't  a  sacrifice,  it  was  ordained." 

"  All  sacrifices  are  spoken  of  in  just  that  way.  And 
that  face  is  capable  of  such  intense  suffering,  such  despair. 
Why,  anything  might  happen  if  Jean  lost  hope,  if  she  once 
became  convinced  there  was  nothing  to  live  for." 

"  She  won't  come  to  think  that — Jean  will  have  her 
baby  to  look  forward  to." 

"Baby— what  baby?" 

But  before  the  Memsahib  could  answer  I  understood. 
What  I  had  looked  upon  at  first  as  an  irritating  happening 
was  broadening  out  into  the  whole  scheme  of  the  universe, 
the  repeating  circuit  of  eternity,  God  and  goodness,  sin  and 
weakness,  and  constancy,  and  recreating. 

I  remained  in  subdued  silence,  and  the  Memsahib  re- 
sumed :  "  I  wanted  to  talk  about  this  to  you,  husband.  Our 
duty  is  plain,  don't  you  think?  We  must  carry  Jean  until 
either  Neil  comes  back  or  the  baby  is  born.  She  can  live  on 
hope  till  her  child  comes,  and  after  that  she  must  live  for  the 
little  one.  You  won't  mind,  will  you,  husband — Jean's 
being  here,  I  mean  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  It  will  interfere  with  the  writing — it  will  trouble  you 
a  little." 

"  No,  it  will  help  it;  I'll  think  deeper.  Humanity  looms 
larger  now  than  it  did  an  hour  ago.  Even  you " 

The  Memsahib  tiptoed  up  and  kissed  me  on  the  cheek. 
"  You  make  me  happy,  husband.  Come,  quick,  there's  Mal- 
colm coming  down  the  walk.  It's  just  as  well — it's  better 
for  him  to  always  talk  with  you.  It  is  too  bad  that  the  vil- 
lage is  so  uncharitable,  but  we've  got  to  think  of  every- 
thing." 

39 


The  Lone  Furrow 


Clutching  my  hat  I  hurried  to  the  gate. 

"  I'll  not  come  in,"  Malcolm  said,  in  answer  to  my  invi- 
tation; "  I'm  in  a  hurry.  I've  a  power  of  work  these  days, 
I've  taken  on  the  report  for  the  Meteorological  Department 
in  York.  This  weather  isn't  going  to  last,"  he  added,  break- 
ing off;  "  if  the  wind  shifts  to  the  southwest  we'll  have  rain 
to-morrow." 

But  he  tarried  a  long  time  talking  to  me  till  I  suspected 
that  his  hurry  was  a  pure  fabrication.  For  some  reason  he 
did  not  wish  to  come  in. 

"  I  just  called  to  tell  Mrs.  Cameron,"  he  said,  "  that 
we've  got  a  supply  for  the  pulpit  Sunday.  It's  only  a  stu- 
dent from  Knox  College,  but  it'll  keep  them  quiet.  There 
are  some  that  would  be  willing  to  go  without  a  sermon  just 
to  strengthen  the  feeling  against  Minister.  But  I  wrote 
down  to  Dr.  Monteith,  and  it's  all  arranged — unless  we 
muddle  it  up  like  the  men  of  Kintyre  did." 

"  I  didn't  hear  of  that,  Malcolm,"  I  said,  as  an  invita- 
tion for  the  story,  knowing  it  was  apt  to  be  droll.  There 
was  a  subtle  undercurrent  of  humor  tickling  the  pebbles  at 
the  bottom  of  Bain's  deep-water  solemnity. 

"  No,  they're  not  talking  much  about  it  Kintyre  way," 
Malcolm  commenced.  "It  seems  last  summer  Deacon  Mac- 
Phail  wrote  to  the  Secretary  of  Knox  college  for  a  sup- 
ply. At  the  last  minute,  ministers  being  scarce,  old  Dr. 
Monteith  went  to  fill  the  pulpit  himself.  He's  a  very 
learned  man,  but — his  personal  appearance  suggests  decay; 
mind  you  it's  all  a  false  alarm,  for  he's  clear-headed  enough, 
especially  on  theology.  Well,  when  the  Doctor  went  to 
Kintyre  they  didn't  know  him  for  the  President  of  the  col- 
lege, and  he's  a  silent  man,  publishing  more  about  God  than 

40 


The  Lone  Furrow 


about  himself,  so  they  thought  the  Secretary  had  sent  a 
superannuated  minister  just  as  a  makeshift.  When  the  good 
Doctor  went  away  they  voted  his  sermon  very  dull;  they 
simply  didn't  understand  it,  man,  that  was  the  truth  of  it — 
it  was  too  learned  for  them.  But  in  a  month  Deacon  Mac- 
Phail  was  writing  again  for  a  supply,  and  he  added  a 
postscript :  "  Please  don't  send  the  old  duffer  we  had  last 
time."  MacPhail  knew  the  Secretary  personally,  but  he  was 
away,  and  the  letter  came  straight  into  the  hands  of  Dr. 
Monteith  himself." 

"  Was  he  angry,  Bain  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,  he's  too  big  a  man  for  that.  He  wrote, 
saying  he'd  send  his  grandson,  and  he  did — a  student  at 
Knox." 

Bain  chuckled;  so  did  I  for  that  matter,  picturing  the 
long  face  of  MacPhail. 

"  There'll  some  of  them  be  getting  a  surprise  here, 
I'm  thinking,"  Malcolm  added;  "for  there'll  not  be 
time  to  send  word  to  everyone.  They'll  stay  at  home  on 
their  farms  Sabbath,  complaining  about  the  drought  in 
religion." 

"  Any  word  of  the  lost  man  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Not  a  word.  I've  sent  a  detective  from  York  to  Dun- 
dee to  follow  up  any  clews,  and  I've  got  a  man  at  Niagara 
looking  about.  And,  Cameron,  would  you  mind  taking  a  good 
look  through  the  newspapers  when  they  come  to  the  house, 
and  if  there's  anything — well,  Mrs.  Cameron  would  know 
how  to  break  it?  I've  told  them  at  the  office  to  send  tele- 
grams to  you  direct." 

"You're  very  thoughtful,  Bain." 

"  I  believe  the  wind  is  shifting,"  he  said,  holding  up  his 
4  4I 


The  Lone  Furrow 


hand  critically;  "it's  working  around  to  the  southward. 
There's  a  lot  of  wheat  nearly  ready  to  cut,  and  hot  sunshine 
is  what's  wanted.  Well,  I'll  be  going  home." 

My  eye  followed  Bain's  massive  figure  with  curious  in- 
quiry. Perhaps  it  was  his  powerful  physique  that  made  his 
delicacy  of  thought  appear  the  more  beautiful. 

In  the  evening  the  Memsahib  came  into  my  study  say- 
ing: "  Have  you  got  the  papers  yet?  Hadn't  you  better  get 
them  and  look  through  them  before ?" 

I  clutched  my  hat  and  hurried  to  the  village  store  and 
astonished  the  dealer  by  my  indiscriminate  taste  for  litera- 
ture this  evening;  I  wanted  all  the  papers. 

"  You're  just  like  the  others,  man,"  he  said. 

"How  is  that?"  I  asked. 

"  Well,  you're  a  Tory,  and  you're  takin'  home  the  Liberal 
organ,  the  Globe,  to  read.  Are  you  gettin'  on  the  fence — 
is  there  any  word  of  a  turnover  in  the  Government?  I  never 
saw  the  like.  Here's  Postmaster  MacKay  buying  a  Liberal 
organ,  a  man  that  for  thirty  years  has  sworn  by  the  Con- 
servative's Bible — the  Mail.  I  never  knew  him  to  do  such 
a  thing  before,  never.  I'll  just  have  to  rearrange  all  my 
customers — I'll  be  getting  my  supplies  mixed.  Up  to  now  I 
could  just  take  the  voters'  list  and  tick  them  off,  Liberals  and 
Conservatives,  and  order  their  party  organs  without  askin" 
what  they'd  have.  It's  fair  confusing.  Anyway  I'm  sold 
out — you've  got  the  last  paper.  And  I  never  saw  such  dili- 
gent desire  for  readin'  in  lona  before.  There  must  be  some 
hint  of  Government  change  with  a  possibility  of  office  for  the 
hungry  ones." 

I  left  the  dealer  in  his  mystification,  but  I  knew  quite 
well  why  this  demand.  Like  myself,  the  good  people  would 

42 


The  Lone  Furrow 


search  diligently  all  the  papers  looking  for  news  of  the  lost 
minister. 

Indeed,  opening  the  Globe  as  I  hurried  back,  a  headline 
startled  me.  "  A  man  found  dead,"  it  read ;  and  then, 
"  Looks  like  suicide !  Body  cast  up  by  the  waters  of  Lake 
Ontario." 

I  read  with  feverish  interest.  I  stood  outside  the  gate 
to  cull  the  dread  secret  all  by  myself.  But  the  description 
relieved  my  fears,  it  was  not  Neil.  "  Five  feet  three,"  while 
Minister  was  tall — slender  and  tall,  nearly  six  feet.  That 
was  all  the  paper  held,  just  that  shadow  of  a  fear,  but  I 
realized  now  how  deeply  we  sat  in  the  gloom  of  Jean's 
trouble.  I  had  promised  the  Memsahib  something,  bravely 
enough,  but  what  a  task — what  a  vista  of  restraint  over 
thought  and  deed  was  opening  up. 

The  children  saved  the  evening  from  being  absolute 
gloom.  I  had  got  into  a  pessimistic,  morbid  mood,  and  the 
Memsahib  was  tired. 

We  were  somewhat  of  opportunists  at  the  Hedge,  irra- 
tional as  to  rules,  allowing  hunger  to  dictate  the  meal  hour. 
Chiefly  my  doing,  this,  causing  the  Memsahib  distraction  and 
the  villagers  play  for  ridicule.  I  was  the  one  man  in  lona 
who  had  dinner  at  night,  a  grotesque  unconventionality  that 
appealed  to  them  as  something  akin  to  the  wearing  of  a  silk 
hat. 

There  was  always  an  hour  of  unbridled  license  in  my 
study  after  the  evening  meal;  from  seven  to  eight  a  group 
of  Bedouins  carried  on  a  jirhad  against  decorum  and  order. 

The  Memsahib  tickled  the  keys  of  the  piano  with  rag- 
time touch,  or  droned  it  till  it  wailed  like  a  bagpipe,  and  the 
children,  led  by  Doo-doo,  indulged  in  what  they  were  pleased 

43 


The  Lone  Furrow 


to  call  dancing.  This  was  the  very  mildest  manifestation  of 
youthful  exuberance ;  there  were  other  less  decorous  perform- 
ances. But  it  kept  us  all  just  children,  and  we  had  in  my 
study  the  Pool  of  Water  of  Life  that  Ponce  de  Leon  had 
explored  Florida  for. 

But  this  night  the  children  knew,  and  the  piano  knew, 
and  the  little  ones  sat  like  mice  on  the  big  sofa,  their  eyes 
wide  and  round  in  solemn  half-comprehension,  and  I  read  to 
them  "  The  Knight's  Tale  of  Palamon  and  Arcita." 

At  eight  o'clock  Jean  came  by  the  longest  kisses,  and 
the  double  allotment  of  kisses;  in  fact  I  was  almost  forgot- 
ten— hardly  included.  That  was  the  way  we  were  taking 
up  our  load,  even  to  the  smallest ;  and  yet,  strangely  enough, 
it  was  not  a  burden  at  all,  we  were  eager  for  it. 


44 


CHAPTER   III 

I  HEN  I  awoke  in  the  morning  I  tasted  the 
bitter  ash  of  regret  in  my  soul.  In  active 
combat  against  sorrow  there  was  a  stimulus 
born  of  action;  but  this  Sabbath  morning 
found  me  in  the  depression  of  exhausted  effort. 
Had  I  really  been  in  deep  sympathy? 

"  I  shall  not  go  to  church  to-day,"  I  said  to  the  Memsahib. 
"  Listening  to  a  student  would  make  an  infidel  of  any  man." 
Blitz,  hearing  my  voice,  had  come  smiling  into  the  room. 
I  am  sure  he  winked  at  me  when  I  said  this,  for  he  knew 
the  fields  with  all  the  joy  they  held  would  be  our  portion. 
He  rolled  at  my  feet  in  delight  as  I  laced  the  heavy  walking 
boots  that  carried  the  history  of  tramps  through  beech  woods 
and  prowls  by  the  banks  of  running  brooks  written  in  the 
delicate  language  which  his  fine  nose  alone  might  read. 
Those  boots  held  not  the  decorous  association  of  pews,  and 
now  he  would  not  have  the  patient,  sad  wait,  in  a  window, 
watching  for  my  return  from  service. 

As  I  loitered  lazily  after  breakfast,  the  Memsahib  turned 
me  out  of  doors,  saying:  "  Please  get  clear  of  the  village  be- 
fore the  people  go  to  church.  It  doesn't  look  quite  right  to 
be  meeting  them." 

45 


The  Lone  Furrow 


Also  Blitz  was  beckoning  me  forth,  making  great  busi- 
ness of  opening  the  gate  with  his  paw. 

Quite  solemn  and  circumspect,  as  befitted  the  Sabbath 
hush  that  was  over  everything,  I  went  the  length  of  the 
village  street.  But  my  companion,  not  holding  to  the  moral 
responsibilities  of  the  day,  shikarried  cats.  There  are  cats 
in  the  village  at  all  times,  but  Sunday  morning  there  is  a 
double  allotment.  Perhaps  this  is  because  the  boys  are  at 
Sunday  school,  or  are  restricted  on  the  Sabbath.  Blitz 
chases  them,  that  is  all ;  he  has  not  caught  one  in  the  five 
years  of  his  life  here — yes,  once;  but  that  time  it  was  two 
cats,  and  they  caught  him. 

As  I  reach  a  bridge  spanning  the  railway  track, 
I  congratulate  myself  that  I  have  been  too  early  for 
the  church  people,  and  have  avoided  all  offense.  Alas! 
I  am  premature  in  my  satisfaction.  Mrs.  MacRae, 
worthy  body,  and  earliest  attendant,  half  checks  as 
we  meet,  and  says,  "  Good  morning,  Dr.  Cameron ;  are 
ye  lost?" 

I've  no  doubt  whatever  but  that  she  firmly  believes  this 
is  the  condition  of  my  future.  Then  she  adds  with  a  Scotch 
delight  of  torture,  "  I  was  no'  knowin'  there  was  ony  preach- 
ing out  in  the  country." 

"  Oh,  yes  there  is,"  I  answered. 

"  An'  who's  the  meenister?  " 

"  Pan." 

Mrs.  MacRae  pinched  her  chin,  and  her  brow  wrinkled 
over  this  that  was  evidently  aberration. 

"Aye,  aye!  Good  morning,  Dr.  Cameron,"  and  she  was 
gone. 

Blitz  winked  at  me  in  commendation,  and  I  am  sure  he 
46 


The  Lone  Furrow 


had  my  repartee  quite  as  well  as  the  good  lady  who  had  im- 
paled me. 

But  she  had  an  afterthought,  stopping  me  just  as  I  turned 
away. 

"Who's  takin'  the  service — have  ye  heard?"  implying 
that  if  I  had  the  information  it  would  be  casual.  "  Is  there 
ony  word  o'  Meenister  yet?  "  she  continued. 

"  None." 

"Aye,  aye!     It's  a  dreadful  affair  altogether." 

Then  it  occurred  to  me,  too  late,  that  I  should  have 
taken  the  road  sooner,  allowing  for  the  Scotch  curiosity  that 
would  draw  the  church  members  earlier  this  day  for  a  bit 
of  gossip  before  service. 

But  presently  we  had  come  into  the  sweet  outer 
world,  clear  of  the  prison  walls  that  held  humans,  with 
their  insecure  hold  upon  gentleness,  the  rich  fruitage  of 
existence. 

I  floated  along  (in  reality  I  walked)  between  the  fields 
of  burnt  gold,  wherein  rustling  wheat  whispered  to  the 
wind  secrets  of  the  ground  dwellers — the  moles  and  the 
beetles  and  the  slugs  that  had  their  holdings  down  in  the 
depths  of  the  gold-tasseled  forest.  Then  the  bronze  turbans 
of  the  grain  gods  faded  into  the  gray-green  of  hay  meadows 
where  the  slender-penciled  timothy,  patrician  and  of  high 
caste,  topped  its  brother,  the  full-bodied  clover,  a  commoner 
of  good  living,  sensuous,  sweet  of  breath,  wine-colored  and 
cream-tinted  of  blossom.  Star-eyed  daisies,  holding  their 
pale  cheeks  all  day  to  the  kiss  of  the  sun  and  turning  their 
curved  throats  from  east  to  west  lest  they  lose  one  glance 
from  the  god  of  warmth,  flooded  the  meadow  like  a  milky 
way. 

47 


The  Lone  Furrow 


Not  desolate  in  stillness  the  field,  but  a  city  of  joyous 
folk.  Boisterous  crickets  sang  Bacchanalian  songs;  and 
artisan  bees,  turned  pillagers,  hummed  lazy  slumber  songs 
as  they  looted  wax  from  the  defenseless  flowers,  till  their 
thighs  bulged  like  saddlebags,  and  pumped  from  the  hearts 
of  the  clover  nectar  for  a  long  winter's  carouse.  Grasshop- 
pers, lean  as  greyhounds,  poised  in  the  air  like  kingfishers, 
sending  the  music  of  their  shrill  little  pfiffaries  far  over  the 
heads  of  the  dwellers. 

Far  up  the  strip  of  bare  earth  the  road,  that  was  like  a 
ribbon  slit  from  tassa  silk,  a  cloud  of  dust  spiraled  upward, 
and  in  the  center  of  its  ghostlike  holding  I  could  see  the 
heavy  heads  of  toil  horses. 

"  People  of  order  are  coming,  behave !  "  I  said  to  Blitz ; 
for  on  the  first  limb  of  a  thorn  tree,  laden  with  green  haws, 
sat  a  red  squirrel,  scolding  back  saucily  at  the  frantic  little 
white  animal  that  jumped  and  yelped  beneath. 

"Is  there  any  service,  Dr.  Cameron?"  the  driver  of 
the  wagon  said,  pulling  up  beside  me.  "  I  heard  there  was, 
but  you're  no  headin'  for  the  kirk." 

"  There  is  service,"  I  answered. 

"  Ony  word  o'  Minister  yet — is  he  back?  Is  there  any 
truth  in  what  they're  saying  up  the  line?  " 

"  He's  not  back.  I  don't  know  what  they're  saying  up 
the  line,  but  I'm  sure  it's  not  true  if  it  reflects  on  Minister 
Munro." 

"  Just  that — aye,  aye !  that's  what  Maggie  was  saying." 

And  Maggie,  looking  very  happy  that  we  were  on  the 
same  side,  beamed  upon  me  and  chimed:  "No  one'll  make 
me  believe  that  Minister  wasn't  a  good  man.  He  trod  a  bit 
hard  on  their  corns — that's  what's  troubling  them." 

48 


The  Lone  Furrow 


But  the  husband,  Angus  MacLean,  had  gathered  up  his 
reins,  and,  as  they  sped  away,  I  slipped  through  a  portal  of 
the  meadow  city  wall.  Huge  and  gnarled,  like  stranded 
devilfish,  were  the  giant  pine  stumps  that,  shoulder  to  shoul- 
der, fenced  the  meadow  from  the  roadway;  the  storm- 
bleached  roots,  evil-twisting,  outlined  against  the  blue  sky 
like  a  cartoon  of  Dore's. 

As  my  rude  feet  thrust  ruthlessly  at  the  heart-shaped 
leaves  of  the  clover,  diminutive  grasshoppers,  lemon-green, 
possessed  of  Gulliver's  many-leagued  boots,  shot  like  tiny 
rockets  across  my  path  that  led  toward  a  pine  wood,  which 
the  Memsahib,  who  was  fond  of  christening  everything,  had 
named  "  Toilers'  Paradise." 

Behind  me  on  the  roadway  another  cloud  of  dust  was 
idly  moving  villageward;  but  I  had  escaped  its  raisers.  No 
more  questions  to  conjure  up  the  treacherous  spirit  of  doubt 
that  the  sunshine  and  the  fields  were  laying  low. 

Beneath  the  pines  are  couches  for  a  regiment,  a  thousand 
men,  soft-trussed  by  the  dead  needles.  I  threw  myself  down 
in  luxuriant  abandon;  I  lighted  my  pipe  defiantly;  while 
Blitz  ransacked  the  undergrowth  for  prey.  His  energy  is 
wasted,  for  in  the  forest  live  none  so  foolish  as  to  yield 
themselves  to  his  clamorous,  scurrying  onslaught. 

Presently  the  Gentleman  of  the  Black  Stock,  with  meas- 
ured swoop  of  wing,  sidles  in  from  the  open,  and  perches 
above  me.  I  am  something  for  his  morbid  curiosity.  The 
crow  preens  his  blue-black  head,  and  shafts  of  sunlight  are 
alchemized  into  a  filagree  of  copper  and  gold,  and  jewels  of 
turquoise  and  sapphire  and  ruby  in  his  mirroring  coat.  He 
is  a  comely  villain,  complacently  self-satisfied.  Of  me  he  is 
suspicious. 

49 


The  Lone  Furrow 


"  Avv-w-w-w  there!"  he  exclaims,  and  waits  for  me  to 
explain  my  presence. 

I  answer  nothing,  but  in  fancy  interpret  his  harangue 
as,  "  Rooked  you,  did  they  ?  " 

Does  he  think  I  am  come  here  in  despair  to  hide  from  my 
unfellow-men  ?  Perhaps  he  knows  of  this  sort  of  thing.  A 
sudden  chilling  thought  strikes  at  my  heart.  Shall  I  never 
more  get  away  from  the  questions?  Have  I  escaped  from 
the  churchgoers  to  come  by  the  gruesome  suggestions  of  this 
prowler?  Has  he  seen  some  one  stricken  to  madness  lay 
himself  down  to  the  rest  of  Nirvana? 

In  a  rage  I  hurl  a  stick  at  the  prating  fool,  and  he  weaves 
away  through  the  heavy  pattern  of  somber  green,  sending 
back  a  harsh  laugh  of  derision.  I  spring  to  my  feet  possessed 
of  this  gloomy  fancy  which  the  crow's  carrion  laugh  has 
bred,  and  search  the  pine  wood  for  something  I  do  not  want 
to  find. 

It  is  but  a  mild  frenzy.  Was  not  the  missing  man  seen 
at  Dundee?  Doubt  answers,  "That  was  just  a  rumor." 

Then  my  memory  reads  on  its  hidden  page  two  records, 
black-bordered,  that  are  akin  to  this  gruesome  thought.  A 
year  ago  one  wearied  to  insanity  had  been  found  in  the  little 
river  where  it  brawls  down  from  the  mountain ;  and  Trout 
Lake,  just  a  pond,  had  held  the  solution  to  the  other  mystery, 
yielding  its  answer  to  the  grapple  hooks. 

I  find  nothing  but  a  big  patch  of  sunlight;  the  rotunda 
of  the  pine  wood,  breast  high  with  raspberry  bushes,  ruby- 
studded  with  fruit.  And  here  are  the  guests  gossiping,  and 
no  doubt  criticising  one  another's  manner  of  dress;  robins 
that  have  taken  voice  culture,  and  a  bluejay  that  needs  it, 
with  his  harsh  repellant  rasp.  A  songsparrow  hails  my  ap- 

50 


The  Lone  Furrow 


pearance  with  a  trill  of  merriment;  and  Blitz,  bounding  into 
the  brambles,  raises  a  cloud  of  pudgy  little  birds. 

The  sunlight  is  good,  it  warms  my  marrow,  it  peoples 
my  mind  with  thoughts  of  things  living. 

I  look  at  my  watch;  one  o'clock!  and  the  roast  is  timed 
for  half  past  one;  I  can  just  make  it. 

Spurred  by  thought  of  the  Memsahib's  reproach,  I  stretch 
my  legs,  shortcutting  it  through  a  pasture  field,  the  pile  of 
its  velvet  carpet  close-shorn  by  the  firm  lips  of  cows  till  it 
is  like  an  antique  Persian  rug. 

As  I  clamber  over  the  high  rail  fence  that  is  weathered 
to  purple,  I  miss  Blitz,  and,  sitting  atop  the  upper  rail,  I 
whistle.  A  ki-yi  of  eager  delight  answers  me  from  back  in 
the  field. 

I  call  and  whistle  unavailingly ;  then,  full  of  anger,  and 
also  fearing  that  perhaps  he  is  caught  in  something,  I  hasten 
back  over  my  trail.  Behind  a  little  grassless  mound  of  earth 
Blitz's  stubby  white  tail  is  showing  clear  of  a  ground  hog's 
doorway.  A  cloud  of  sand  thrown  by  the  delver's  paws 
issues  from  between  his  hind  legs.  When  I  speak  he  un- 
earths long  enough  to  look  up  in  approval  of  my  return, 
and  then  worms  his  body  into  the  burrow  like  a  cork  in  a 
bottle.  But  it  is  no  time  for  shikarri,  so  I  hook  the  crook  of 
my  walking  stick  in  his  collar,  and  away  we  go. 

I  am  scarce  under  way  on  the  road  again  before  I  hear  the 
rattle  of  wheels  behind.  The  wheels  are  very  rattley,  for  it 
is  old  Mrs.  Paisley 's  antique  buggy,  and  also  ancient  horse; 
I  really  believe  that  part  of  the  creaking  comes  from  his 
knees. 

Now  she  has  checked  her  wingless  Pegasus  as  I  step  to 
one  side,  and  asks,  "  Will  you  have  a  lift,  Doctor?  " 

51 


The  Lone  Furrow 


After  all  I  shall  surely  be  in  time  now,  I  think,  as  I 
clamber  to  a  seat  at  her  side. 

"  You've  been  up  to  Stonehill  for  church,  I  suppose.  It's 
a  long  drive,  four  miles,  just  for  service,"  I  say. 

"  I  dinna  mind  it;  if  it  was  fifty  I'd  rather  make  it  than 
sit  by  yon  screeching  whustles  in  our  own  kirk." 

"  You're  still  unreconciled  to  the  organ  then,  Mrs. 
Paisley." 

"  Aye,  just  that,  un-ree-conciled.  That's  well  put,  Doc- 
tor. And  I'm  thinking  the  Kirk  itself  is  un-ree-conciled 
judging  o'  the  peck  o'  trouble  has  come  tae  it." 

"  What  has  the  organ  got  to  do  with  that,  Mrs.  Pais- 
ley?" I  asked,  thinking  what  a  tenacious,  bitter  thing  the 
Scotch  antipathy  was.  For  ten  years  the  old  body  had  trav- 
eled every  Sabbath  to  Stonehill  rather  than  enter  her  own 
church  that  had  so  far  lapsed  from  grace  as  to  echo  to  the 
sounds  of  an  organ. 

"  Weel,  it  has  to  do  wi'  it  in  this  way,"  she  said — as  the 
old  horse  seemed  inclined  to  stop  to  listen  I  surreptitiously 
prodded  his  thigh  with  my  walking  stick,  for  I  was  in  a  fair 
way  of  being  too  late  for  dinner  after  all — "  it's  just  a  visita- 
tion, or  proof  of  Biblical  truth,"  Mrs.  Paisley  continued; 
"  it's  the  sins  o'  the  faethers  visited  on  the  children.  It  was 
Jean  Craig's  faether — and  a  stiff-neck  he  was,  too,  when  he 
tuk  a  notion — that  was  the  insteegator  o'  puttin'  yon  Devil's 
bagpipe  in  the  kirk.  It  was  Satan  drivin'  a  wedge  o'  sin  intil 
the  kirk  through  drink,  d'ye  ken;  fiddling  and  singing  and 
dancing  go  together,  and  there  was  all  o'  that  doon  tae  the 
tavern  at  the  corner,  and  naething  but  dry  releegion  at  the 
kirk,  so  it  had  to  be  changed.  Craig  gave  fifty  dollars  toward 
the  organ  himsel'.  And  d'ye  ken  this,  Doctor,  I've  heerd  it  for 

52 


The  Lone  Furrow 


the  truth,  yon  same  man,  old  Craig,  refused  tae  contreebute 
tae  the  mission  funds  " — the  old  lady  lowered  her  voice,  and 
added,  almost  in  a  whisper — "  old  man  Craig  said,  when 
they  gang  tae  him  for  a  subscreeption,  that  the  Pagans  in 
India  who  worship  graven  images  were  better  Christians  nor 
the  members  of  our  ain  congregation.  Wasn't  that  enough 
tae  rile  the  Lord,  Doctor?  It  would  rile  onybody — it  did 
me  when  I  heard  it.  He  was  a'  for  new-fangled  notions, 
putting  yon  gaudy  window  in  the  kirk  too.  I  dinna  ken 
what  that  cost  him,  something  awfu'  the  price,  I  believe — it 
would  ha'e  bought  hundreds  o'  Bibles  for  the  benighted 
Pagans.  When  I  used  tae  attend,  afore  the  organ  came, 
just  the  smattering  o'  the  sun  through  a'  them  gaudy  lights 
glowered  me  eyes  so  I  couldna  discern  a  body  in  kirk;  I 
couldna'  make  out  a  MacPhail  frae  a  Graham — their  faces 
just  blotches  of  blue  and  yellow  like  pictures  o'  gorillas 
more  than  Christians." 

Steeped  in  her  favorite  narcotic,  the  theme  of  the  organ, 
Mrs.  Paisley,  to  my  pleasure,  had  forgotten  the  newer  trou- 
ble. I  was  congratulating  myself,  for  she  had  a  prying 
tongue,  when  she  broke  vigorously  through  my  complacency, 
exclaiming: 

"  Man  alive !  I  was  near  forgetting  to  ask  if  ye  had  any 
word  o'  the  Meenister.  Mrs.  Lancey,  at  Stonehill,  was 
telling  me  there  was  a  body  found  in  the  Welland  Canal, 
and  the  descreeption  o'  it  was  vera  like  Meenister." 

"  Why  should  he  be  in  the  canal  ?  "  I  asked  petulantly. 

"Aye,  just  that!  A  strange  place  for  Meenister  sure 
enough.  I  told  her  I  didna  believe  it.  But  then,  again, 
Doctor,  the  man  must  be  somewhere,  and  if  he's  no  in  the 
canal,  where  is  he,  say  I?  There's  just  been  naething  but 

53 


The   Lone  Furrow 


trouble  for  the  Craigs  ever  since  that  organ  was  insteetuted. 
The  old  man  Craig  died  in  drink,  and  the  son,  Robert,  will 
die  the  same  way — God  forbid !  but  he  will.  And  Jean,  she 
was  the  best  o'  the  lot,  she  has  her  ain  trouble  noo.  I  was 
often  wondering,  Doctor " — she  turned  and  searched  my 
face  with  her  small,  gray  eyes — "  whether  it  was  objecting 
tae  the  organ  kept  you  from  attending  kirk — you  dinna  go 
often.  Ha'e  ye  ony  scruples  that  way  yersel'?  Because  if 
you  ha'e  ony  I  could  gi'e  ye  a  lift  tae  service  at  Stonehill 
every  Sabbath — there  and  back." 

While  I  decline  this  kind  offer  we  turn  a  corner  and  are 
jogging  down  the  village  street.  It  is  deserted.  From 
each  dwelling  issues  a  tell-tale  odor  of  the  day's  fare.  Blitz's 
nose  is  in  the  air ;  so  is  mine.  At  the  little  brick  cottage  it  is 
roast  pork,  I  will  swear;  from  the  large  graystone  where 
dwells  the  keeper  of  our  general  store,  comes  the  respectable 
announcement  of  roast  beef. 

Something  of  village  smartness  creeps  into  the  old  horse's 
mind;  he  pricks  up  his  ears,  and  we  rattle  down  the  main 
street — it  is  really  downhill — at  almost  an  unseemly  gait  on 
the  Sabbath  for  people  who  frown  upon  the  organ. 

After  all  I  am  a  little  late.  I  plead  the  episode  of  the 
ground  hog,  but  the  Memsahib  says  dryly,  "  Oh,  yes;  blame 
it  on  Blitz." 

She  has  met  me  at  the  door  and  adds,  "  I  have  brought 
Malcolm  Bain  home  for  dinner." 

The  dining  table,  fitted  to  seven,  is  lengthened  by  an 
extra  leaf,  which  gives  an  air  of  unusual  formality. 

For  the  first  time  since  I  have  known  Malcolm  Bain  I 
notice  a  change  in  him.  He  is  a  big  man  physically,  even 
mentally,  and  now  his  hands  appear  to  trouble  him — they  are 

54 


The  Lone  Furrow 


in  the  way — they  are  too  large  even  for  his  width  of  shoul- 
der; he  is  embarrassed,  awkward.  Perhaps  my  perspective 
has  been  deranged  by  the  elegant  small-fry  of  the  fields. 

"  I  was  glad  you  were  not  at  church  this  morning,"  the 
Memsahib  said. 

"  So  was  I,"  I  answered,  "  for  it  is  glorious  out  in  the 
fields  to-day." 

"  We  had  such  a  trying  sermon,"  she  continued.  "  The 
Supply  was  just  a  boy;  he  read  his  sermon,  and  was  so  nerv- 
ous that  we  could  hardly  hear  a  word.  Poor  Teacher 
Harkett  nearly  fainted  when  he  rose  and  in  a  small,  squeaky 
voice  gave  out  the  wrong  hymn." 

"  That  was  what  made  the  commotion  in  the  choir,  was 
it?  "  Bain  asked.  "  I  thought  the  organ  had  broken  down." 

"  We  got  through  it  some  way  or  other,  but  it  was  dread- 
ful. In  her  nervous  excitement  Miss  Harkett  plunged  into 
the  tune  of  '  Art  Thou  Weary,'  while  the  congregation  cheer- 
fully sang  to  it  from  the  number  the  minister  had  announced, 
1  Onward  Christian  Soldiers.'  " 

"  It  must  have  been  a  rare  entanglement,  a  little  worse 
than  usual,"  I  suggested.  "  What  did  the  choir  do?  " 

"  I  think  some  of  us  took  part  with  the  congregation 
while  some  followed  the  organist.  It  sounded  like  that. 
Teacher  was  ready  to  cry  from  sheer  nervousness.  You 
know  she  lays  out  the  choir  chairs  according  to  the  pattern 
of  the  carpet — don't  laugh,  it's  quite  true — she's  awfully 
fussy,  and  this  morning  they  were  all  wrong;  it  was  just 
trying  to  one's  own  nerves  to  watch  Teacher's  misery." 

"I'm  afraid  I  came  by  little  good  myself,"  Bain  declared. 
"  Amateur  theology  is  like  unripe  fruit — children  may  take 
it  without  harm,  but  it  doesn't  agree  with  older  folk.  Dis- 

55 


The  Lone  Furrow 


crimination  is  a  sad  handicap,  it  limits  one's  enjoyment; 
nothing  but  the  best  we're  wanting,  and  that's  not  always  to 
be  come  by." 

"  Student  preachers  are  a  great  lottery,"  I  suggested,  just 
to  fill  a  void  left  by  Bain's  suddenly  stopping  in  embarrass- 
ment as  though  he  felt  he  had  said  too  much. 

"  There  was  little  time  to  arrange  for  a  supply.  Next 
Sabbath — "  again  Malcolm  hesitated  in  affright;  he  had 
blundered.  But  he  struck  out  bravely,  adding,  "  Next  Sab- 
bath we'll  have  our  own  minister  back." 

I  looked  at  Jean.  Her  face  was  quite  white,  but  I  be- 
lieve there  was  a  look  of  gratitude  in  her  eyes. 

Kippie  broke  the  awful  silence  that  had  come  upon  us, 
taking  advantage  of  it  to  say,  "  I  'member  the  text,  Mudder." 

Mentally  I  promised  Kippie  five  cents  over  this  relief,  and 
the  Memsahib  seized  upon  the  opportunity  with  avidity,  say- 
ing, coaxingly,  "  That's  a  good  girl;  can  you  repeat  it?  " 

The  little  one  smiled  bashfully. 

"  You've  forgotten  it,  Kippie,"  I  taunted,  making  the 
most  of  the  situation. 

"  Show  Father  that  you  haven't — quick,  before  the  pud- 
ding is  brought  in !  "  Memsahib  encouraged.  "  What  was 
it  now?" 

1 '  Divide  with  us,  for  the  day  is  far  spent.'  " 

It  was  indeed  cruel  to  laugh  at  a  little  child's  mistake, 
and  sinful  because  of  the  subject,  but  I  declare  that  a  smile 
hovered  for  a  second  about  even  Jean  Munro's  lips. 

In  my  mind  I  doubled  Kippie's  reward ;  and  her  mother 
said  gently,  "  It's  a-bide  with  us,  darling." 

Jean  put  her  head  down  and  kissed  Kippie,  saying,  "  You 
sweet  angel !  " 

56 


The  Lone  Furrow 


I  felt  that  Bain  was  eager  to  beat  a  retreat,  so  when  we 
rose  I  carried  him  off  to  the  lawn  for  a  smoke. 

"  I  made  a  fine  mess  of  it,"  he  lamented  when  we  were 
alone. 

"  It  was  a  dangerous  subject,"  I  answered.  "  We  should 
have  talked  about  the  weather." 

"  The  weather  is  an  interesting  study,"  Malcolm  added 
solemnly.  "  This  church  trouble  is  taking  up  so  much  of 
my  time  just  now  that  I've  lost  all  track  of  a  storm  I  was 
following  from  Dakota.  It  was  due  here  to-day,  but  it  may 
have  gone  south  of  the  lakes." 

"  There  is  no  trace  at  all  of  Minister?  "  I  asked. 

"  None." 

"  It's  strange." 

"  Yes." 

I  told  Bain  what  I  had  heard  from  Angus  MacLcan 
about  the  gossip  up  the  line. 

"Yes,  I've  heard  it — the  hounds!"  he  answered  bit- 
terly. 

"  What  is  it,  it  can't  be  money?  " 

"  What  they're  always  ready  to  accuse  a  good-living 
man  of." 

"  111  living,"  I  suggested. 

"  Yes." 

"  But  it's  a  black  lie,"  I  declared.  "  He  worshiped  his 
wife — and  well  he  might,  one  of  the  sweetest  women  that 
ever  lived." 

"  She  is  that.  And  Munro  was  as  good ;  but  he  was  not 
as  strong  as  might  be — I  don't  mean  morally — he  was  a  wee 
bit  weak  in  the  fiber,  he  couldn't  last  out  against  the  Phil- 
istines ;  he  was  brave  enough  in  the  attack,  but  they  just  wore 
5  57 


The  Lone  Furrow 


him  out  by  taking  no  heed — turning  the  other  tough  cheek 
of  indifference  for  him  to  smite  at." 

"  Still  if  he  was  brave — and  he  was — he  wouldn't  go 
away  and  leave " 

"  No,  that's  the  mystery  of  it.  There's  only  one  expla- 
nation— he  was  deranged.  And  if  he  was  that,  God  knows 
what  he  mightn't  do  with  himself." 

"  But  if  he  had  made  away  with  himself,  it  would  be 
known — he'd  have  been  found." 

"  And  if  he  were  alive  there'd  be  some  trace  of  him,  I'm 
thinking.  We're  searching  everywhere.  He  didn't  cross 
Niagara,  I  know." 

"  Well,  it  can't  be  for  long,  this  terrible  suspense ;  it  will 
be  settled  one  way  or  the  other  soon." 

"  I  hope  so.  I'll  fight  to  keep  the  pulpit  vacant  for  him, 
but  there're  some  that'll  fight  hard  the  other  way;  they  were 
against  him." 

"  Yes,  you  must  do  that,  Bain.  While  the  Church  waits 
for  his  return,  as  it  were,  it'll  keep  alive  hope  in  the  wife's 
heart.  I'm  sure  that  if  they  extend  a  call  to  another  min- 
ister, she'll  think  they  consider  him  dead." 

"  I'll  keep  it  open,"  Bain  answered,  and  his  head  sat  on 
his  strong  neck  like  a  picture  of  a  grim  Covenanter. 

"  Are  you  going?  "  I  asked  as  he  rose. 

"  Yes,  if  you  say  good-by  to  Mrs.  Cameron  and  Mrs. 
Munro  for  me.  I  want  to  have  a  bit  walk,  and  I  think 
there'll  be  rain  before  night.  Yon  mackerel  sky  presages  a 
change." 


CHAPTER   IV 

|OMEHOW  I  was  dreading  the  evening. 

The  July  night  glided  in  with  a  silencing 
depression.  The  trident  leaves  of  the  maple 
rustled  in  a  faint  listlessness  above  the  sleeping 
lilac  hedge.  The  sky  that  had  glowered  red 
in  the  wake  of  the  setting  sun  was  now  blurred  by  a  vast 
cloud  that  menaced  a  storm. 

Across  the  roadway  worshipers  passed  up  the  church 
steps  and  through  its  Gothic  doorway  in  a  continuous  file; 
they  were  like  a  flock  of  sheep  seeking  the  evening  fold. 
Many  of  them  turned  their  eyes  curiously  the  way  of  Lilac 
Hedge. 

I  was  glad  the  Memsahib  had  elected  to  stay  at  home, 
for  I  felt  incapable  of  consolation. 

In  the  hammock,  shielded  by  the  hedge  from  the  eyes  of 
the  churchgoers,  Jean  Munro  had  about  her  a  little  court 
of  sympathy — the  children. 

Presently  the  Memsahib  came  to  the  door  and  called 
eagerly:  "Come  here,  John,  quick;  Cricket  is  back.  He's 
chirping  on  the  hearth  in  your  study." 

The  children  jumped  up  with  joyous  cries:  "Oh,  the 
cricket!  goody,  goody!  Come,  Aunt  Jean,  and  hear  Cricket." 

59 


The  Lone  Furrow 


Very  quietly  we  stood  in  the  hallway  and  listened.  There 
he  was,  as  joyful  as  a  sandboy,  "  Creak,  creak,  creak!  " 

Then  we  went  back  to  the  lawn,  and  Memsahib  told 
Jean  at  great  length  all  about  Cricket.  Of  course  it  was  to 
draw  her  mind  from  the  dread  and  misery. 

"  That  means  good  luck,"  Memsahib  explained.  "  We 
haven't  heard  him  for  a  long  time  now.  We  were  afraid 
he  had  got  killed  or  frozen  up,  or  something,  last  winter. 
He's  been  with  us  for  three  or  four  years — we're  sure  it's  the 
same  one." 

"  Of  course  it  is,"  I  interposed. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  Doo-doo  affirmed ;  "  no  strange  cricket  would 
be  so  wise;  he  wouldn't  know  us  as  old  Creaker  does." 

"  He  came  to  us  in  the  oddest  way,"  Memsahib  con- 
tinued. "  A  load  of  hay  wras  going  down  the  lane  to  the 
stable,  and  he  got  brushed  off  against  the  kitchen  shutters. 
He  lives  most  of  the  time  in  the  old  fireplace  in  the  kitchen 
— it  never  has  a  fire,  you  know." 

"  But  he  wanders  all  over  the  house,"  I  added.  '  Tell 
Jean  about  Sarah  saving  him  when  he  was  shipwrecked." 

The  children  laugh  at  this  weak  attempt  at  facetiousness, 
and  Memsahib  tells  the  simple  story.  "  Sarah  found  him  in 
the  bath  floating  about  on  the  water.  He  must  have  been 
after  a  drink ;  he  was  nearly  drowned,  poor  little  chap !  She 
took  him  to  bed  with  her,  and  in  the  morning  he  was  perched 
on  her  pillow,  quite  chippy." 

"  And  Blitz  won't  touch  him,"  Doo-doo  added ;  "  Blitz 
knows  he  belongs  to  the  house.  He'll  just  go  up  and  sniff 
at  Creaker  when  he  sees  him  on  the  floor." 

"  He's  our  mascot,  our  four-leafed  clover,  our  found 
horseshoe  " — I  was  preparing  the  way  for  a  clever  little  plot 

60 


The  Lone  Furrow 


of  distraction  I  suddenly  caught  a  glimpse  of,  for  Cricket 
should  be  dragged  into  the  general  crusade  against  morbid 
depression.  I  cast  about  in  my  mind  for  enlarging  correla- 
tives. A  cricket  was  such  a  tiny  offset  to  huge  Black 
Care  that  I  must  use  the  story-building  faculty.  I  even 
traveled  across  seas  to  Burma  for  an  apposite,  substantiat- 
ing touch. 

"  At  the  Hedge  here,"  I  said,  "  we're  as  much  people  of 
lucky  omens  as  the  nature  worshipers  in  Burma.  There  they 
have  the  '  tucktaw,'  a  most  repulsive-looking  lizard,  as  rep- 
resenting the  god  of  good  luck  in  a  household.  If  this  lizard 
crawls  about  the  walls — though  he  is  generally  in  the  leaf 
roof — catching  flies,  and  occasionally  uttering  his  dismal 
'  Tucktaw-w,  tucktaw-w-w ! '  nine  times,  the  dwellers  will 
remain  happy,  feeling  that  their  household  gods  will  come 
to  no  evil." 

"  Faith  is  a  great  thing  " — Jean  surprised  me  with  this 
sudden  expression.  "  And  you  have  Cricket  as  a  tucktaw, 
Doctor?" 

"  Yes ;  and  we  are  in  for  a  run  of  luck  now  that  he  has 
come  back.  Last  year  he  helped  me  wonderfully  to  write  a 
book." 

Doo-doo  laughed  outright.  I  was  sure  that  Jean  was 
smiling  at  this  oddity. 

"  Indeed  he  did.  He  was  all  over  my  study,  singing  like 
a  sandpiper." 

"  Do  sandpipers  sing,  Father?  "  Doo-doo,  who  takes  na- 
ture study  at  school,  asked. 

"  I  don't  know,"  I  answered,  "  but  Cricket  did." 

"  And  your  book  was  successful — I  heard  a  great  deal 
about  it,"  Jean  commented. 

61 


The  Lone  Furrow 


"  It  really  wasn't  " — I  forgot  the  real  trend  of  the  good- 
luck  argument  enough  to  say — "  it  fell  very  flat." 

The  Memsahib  interposed  with  an  explanation — she  al- 
ways had  one  when  my  work  failed.  "  Last  year  was  the 
tail  end  of  the  historical  novel  tied  to  the  nose  of  the  industry 
narrative,  and  John's  story  was  about  Indians.  It  was  too 
original." 

'  Primitive  '  was  the  word  used  by  the  critics.  The 
editor  I  submitted  it  to  gave  as  reason  for  declining  it  that 
he  wanted  stories  of  people  with  clothes  on." 

"  I  love  animal  stories  best  of  all,"  Doo-doo  cried  en- 
thusiastically;  "  animals  are  lovely.  Father  won't  let  us  kill 
even  a  spider  at  the  Hedge;  and  now  I'm  not  a  bit  afraid 
of  them.  If  it  weren't  for  Mother,  Father  and  I  would 
have  all  the  strange  cats  in  the  village.  Even  Blitz  won't 
touch  my  kitten  now.  He  killed  the  first  one  I  brought 
home,  naughty  dog!  I  cried.  Do  you  like  hens,  Aunt 
Jean?" 

"  Roasted,  Doo-doo." 

If  somebody  had  suddenly  blazed  away  at  me  with  a  shot- 
gun from  over  the  hedge  I  should  have  been  less  astonished, 
though  far  less  pleased.  I  had  barely  thought  enough  left  to 
laugh.  The  hens  were  an  inspiration. 

"  I  mean  hens  going  to  bed,"  Doo-doo  explained. 
"  Father  and  I  often  watch  them  at  roosting  time.  They're 
the  silliest  creatures  in  the  world.  There's  one  old  mother 
hen,  a  Plymouth  Rock,  she  bullies  the  others  something 
dreadful.  She's  fat  and  lazy — that's  why  Father  named  her 
the  Dowager;  she  walks  around  scolding  and  complaining 
about  having  to  get  up  on  a  roost,  and  waits  till  it's  all  full, 
then  Dowager  goes  to  one  end,  and  makes  a  lot  of  motions 

62 


The  Lone  Furrow 


that  she's  going  to  fly  up.  Father  says  that  Dowager  says, 
'  Watch  me  now,  I'm  going  to  fly! '  Then  she  makes  such 
a  row  with  her  wings ;  and  when  she's  up  she  starts  crowding 
and  pecking  and  scolding — I  suppose  Dowager  thinks  the 
others  have  the  best  places — until  she  clears  the  whole  long 
roost  of  every  chicken.  Then  they  fly  up  on  the  others;  I 
don't  think  they  see  very  well  in  the  dark.  And  such  a 
row!" 

How  happily  we  were  getting  on.  I  was  just  making  a 
mental  note  about  a  string  of  agate  beads  Doo-doo  had  her 
eye  on  at  the  jeweler's,  when,  across  the  way,  the  organ 
pealed  forth  in  the  sonorous  notes  of  the  opening  hymn.  It 
hushed  our  chatter;  it  drove  the  brightness  from  Jean's 
eyes;  it  brought  us  from  the  pleasant  gone  days  to  the  bitter 
present. 

Apprehensively  I  watched  Jean.  Perhaps  of  all  the 
hours  that  had  gone  or  were  to  come  this,  in  the  gloaming, 
with  all  that  the  church  service  suggested,  would  be  the  most 
bitter  trial. 

After  a  time  the  student-minister's  voice  came  fitfully  to 
our  ears.  Carrying  no  words,  it  sounded  petulant,  like  the 
strange  articulations  of  a  mute. 

"  Odd,  isn't  it,"  Memsahib  said,  "  that  we  can  hear  his 
voice  from  across  the  street,  when  inside  the  church  I  was 
sure  it  didn't  reach  to  the  back  pews." 

I  was  thinking  how  unlike  it  was  to  the  full,  rich  voice  I 
had  listened  to  many  Sabbath  evenings  from  the  lawrn  when 
Neil  Munro  thundered  at  the  stiff-necked  Scots. 

The  quiet  suggested  sleep  to  the  children,  and  when  they 
had  gone  to  bed  our  heavy  silence  seemed  almost  unbreak- 
able. I  think  we  three  sat  with  the  one  thought  tenant  in 

63 


our  minds,  the  unwelcome  intrusive  guest  of  Neil's  mysteri- 
ous fate,  our  eyes  fixed  idly  upon  the  one  object  of  interest  in 
the  somber  landscape  of  approaching  night,  the  memorial 
window  in  the  church. 

But  half  conscious  of  its  full  import  the  Memsahib  said : 
"  That  window  lighted  up  always  gives  me  a  feeling  of  peace, 
of  rest,  of  solace.  The  Madonna  with  the  infant  Jesus  in 
her  lap  seems  so  far  removed  from  everything  but  just  the 
adorable  love  that  is  in  motherhood  that  I  think  of  my  own 
little  ones,  and  forget  trials  which  have  seemed  so  bitter 
through  the  day." 

"  Yes,  motherhood  is  the  greatest  thing  in  the  world," 
I  advanced;  "it  is  creation  itself — that  is,  in  its  highest 
form." 

"  If  life  were  not  a  part  of  God  Himself,  a  pulsating 
manifestation  of  the  soul,  this  engrossing  adoration  of  a 
mother  for  her  child  would  be  idolatrous,"  the  Memsahib 
continued  in  a  thoughtful  way.  "  See  how  the  Virgin  scarce 
notices  the  homage  of  the  shepherds;  the  babe  in  her  arm  is 
everything,  the  whole  world — even  the  absence  of  the  father 
is  not  felt." 

The  Memsahib  stopped  awkwardly;  her  last  words  had 
faltered.  I  knew  they  had  thrown  her  into  a  confusion. 
What  slippery  ice  we  traveled  upon.  But  she  came  bravely 
to  her  own  rescue,  saying:  "A  baby  will  make  a  woman  of 
a  woman  when  nothing  else  will;  it  will  cause  her  to  bear 
up  against  everything.  I  often  think  when  I  see  some  of  the 
women  here  who  have  been  married  two  or  three  years,  and 
have  no  children,  fluttering  about,  trying  to  get  up  little  card 
parties  or  dances,  or  something  to  kill  time  in  what  they 
style  '  this  dull  old  place,'  that  they  would  be  far  happier 

64 


The  Lone  Furrow 


and  of  more  real  use  in  the  world  if  they  had  children  to 
interest  them." 

The  organ  droned  a  gentle  "  Amen  "  to  the  Memsahib's 
most  wise  reflections  on  the  sisterhood.  The  prelude  grew 
in  volume;  as  it  hushed  again,  a  sweet  tenor  voice  carried  on 
the  night  air  over  the  macs  singing: 

"  '  I  hear  thee  speak  of  a  better  land; 

Thou  callest  the  children  a  happy  band ; 

Mother,  where  is  that  radiant  shore  ? 

Shall  we  not  seek  it  and  weep  no  more  ? 

Is  it  where  the  flower  of  the  orange  blows, 

Or  the  fireflies  dance  through  the  myrtle  boughs  ? 

Not  there,  not  there,  my  child.'  ' 

"  I  think  Robert's  voice  grows  sweeter  every  day,"  Mem- 
sahib  said,  as  the  last  words  of  the  song  died  away. 

"  He  has  the  best  voice  I  have  ever  heard,"  I  added,  just 
to  drown  a  noise  that  was  suspiciously  like  a  sob. 

"  I  think  I  will  retire,  Allis,"  Jean  said,  rising.  "  It's 
been  so  restful  sitting  here  to-night.  I'm  so  glad  that  Robert 
is  singing  in  the  choir  again." 

"  I'll  go  up  with  you  to  light  your  lamp,  Jean,"  the 
Memsahib  offered. 

When  she  came  back  she  said :  "  It  has  done  Jean  good. 
She  has  sat  for  days  dry-eyed  until  her  soul  was  hot ;  but  she 
has  had  a  good  cry  now,  and  I  think  she'll  sleep." 

I  reached  over  and  kissed  the  little  woman  on  the  fore- 
head, much  as  a  tribute  to  her  wise  intelligence  in  going  up 
to  light  that  lamp. 

"  Jean  will  think  always  now  of  the  Madonna  and  the 

65 


The  Lone  Furrow 


Infant;  it  will  keep  her  mind  more  on  her  own  baby  that 
will  be  a  saviour  to  her." 

"  And  if  anything  does  happen,  if  we  come  to  know  any- 
thing, we  must  keep  it  from  her,  wife,  even  if  we  have  to 
tell  lies." 

"  Yes,  we  must." 

This  resolve  silenced  us  for  a  little;  my  thoughts  were 
busy  with  an  odd  fancy  that  the  blue-gowned  Madonna's 
face  was  strangely  like  Jean's. 

The  church  door  swung  open,  tossing  out  a  square  of 
yellow  light;  there  was  a  shuffle  of  feet,  and  grotesquely 
shadowed  heads  blurred  the  blue  gown  of  the  Madonna. 
The  worshipers  came  down  the  steps;  their  forms  loomed 
large  in  the  uncertain  light,  and  then  melted  away. 

The  flood  of  blue  and  crimson  and  gold-colored  light 
died  out  suddenly  from  the  window,  and  the  somber  wall  of 
the  stone  church  stood  silent  and  grim,  like  a  ruined,  lifeless 
cathedral,  against  the  night  sky. 

"It  was  Jean's  father  put  that  window  in  the  church," 
the  Memsahib  said,  as  we  entered  the  house,  "  in  memory  of 
Jean's  mother." 


66 


CHAPTER   V 

| EXT  day  the  Memsahib  suggested  that  I  should 
encroach  personally  into  Malcolm's  life;  that 
the  observed  friendship  between  us  two  men 
would  cause  his  now  often  coming  to  the 
Hedge,  to  appear  more  of  our  masculine  asso- 
ciation than  a  suggestion  for  gossip  that  Bain  came  because 
of  Jean's  presence  with  us.  It  was  a  delicate  thought,  alto- 
gether too  subtle  for  the  vandalic  consideration  of  our  coarse- 
fibered  villagers,  I  feared. 

But  I  had  myself,  by  this  time,  an  itching  desire  to  know 
Bain — to  crackle  the  crust  of  his  reserve.  So  that  afternoon 
I  said  to  him  as  he  halted  at  my  gate:  "  I'll  walk  along  with 
you,  Bain.  My  mind  is  clamoring  for  a  game  at  words; 
this — as  Shaftesbury  calls  it — '  self-inspection  '  is  the  father 
of  moroseness." 

So  we  swung  along  together,  our  faces  holding  the  yellow 
blare  of  the  sun  in  the  west,  for  a  half-mile  to  where  Bain's 
square,  red-brick  home  half  hid  its  severe  outline  behind  two 
giant  locust  trees. 

Bain  thrust  open  an  iron  gate  to  a  cinder  path  that  stretched 
a  narrow  avenue,  graced  on  either  side  by  a  broad-shouldered 
acacia  hedge,  to  the  white-pillared  portico  of  the  house. 

67 


The  Lone  Furrow 


The  spruce  and  balsam  that  interlaced  their  arms  in  a 
little  forest,  clothing  with  an  olive-green  mantle  the  rounded 
breast  of  a  hill  that  laved  its  feet  in  a  joyous  burling  brook, 
caged  a  choir  of  feathered  songsters  that  piped  and  sang 
and  twittered  and  whistled  in  a  revelry  of  music,  just  as 
though  there  was  nothing  else  in  the  world  but  cool  sylvan 
retreats  and  well-filled  stomachs,  and  joyous  outpourings  of 
thankfulness  for  all  this  happiness  that  was  nothing  but  the 
essence  of  existence. 

Bain  caught  an  intuitive  knowledge  of  my  absorption  in 
earth's  panaceatic  draughts  of  delight,  for  he  led  the  way, 
skirting  the  huge  quadrangle  of  bricks,  to  the  brow  of  the 
hill  beyond,  where  a  bench,  curiously  fashioned  in  the  gnarled 
twistings  of  a  tortuous  cedar,  gave  a  resting  place,  from 
which  I  looked  down  upon  a  stream  of  molten  lead  and  silver 
and  gold  that  ran,  in  fluid  blend,  from  some  crucible  held 
in  the  rock  lap  of  a  towering  upland  beyond.  The  brook 
leaped  from  ledge  to  ledge,  a  silver  veil  like  that  of  Mah- 
mud's  screening  from  view  the  fleshless  rock  beneath;  then 
it  swirled  in  a  pool  that  hovered  on  butterfly  wings  of  tran- 
scendent beauty,  gay  in  its  azure  and  green  and  yellow  and 
crimson  festooning  as  a  shimmering  rainbow,  or  the  color- 
dappled  breast  of  a  peacock.  Fragments  of  lacelike  silver- 
work  were  tossed  into  the  sunlight  from  the  unseen  fingers 
of  elfin  artisans  laboring  in  the  caverns  below. 

"  The  trout  are  jumping  fine,"  Malcolm  said,  shattering 
my  fancy  with  his  realistic  fact. 

The  sound  of  his  voice  brought  a  torrent  of  expostulating 
"  chir-r-r-rhs!  "  from  a  startled  red  squirrel  that  had  crept 
curiously  to  a  zigzagging  arm  of  the  cedar  above  our  heads. 

"Cross,  Patsy?"  Malcolm  asked,  casting  his  eye  up  at 
68 


The  Lone   Furrow 


the  bush-tailed  chatterer.  "  He'd  be  down  here  on  my  knee," 
Bain  explained,  "  if  I  were  alone." 

"  What  an  innocent  creature  a  squirrel  is,"  I  observed. 

"  He's  like  the  rest  of  us,"  Malcolm  declared,  "  possessed 
of  the  devil  of  destruction." 

My  eyes  showed  surprise,  and  he  continued :  "  The  young 
rascal  eats  the  robins'  eggs ;  he's  a  prodigal,  putting  by  noth- 
ing for  a  rainy  day,  a  brigand.  Yonder's  his  well — rather 
his  fountain  of  drink  " — Bain's  thumb  indicated  a  maple. 
"  He  cuts  the  little  limbs  and  drinks  the  blood  of  the  tree — 
he's  a  vampire.  And  if  he  misses  the  eggs  of  the  robins, 
when  the  young  are  hatched  he  throws  them  out  of  the  nest. 
Patsy  is  bad  clean  through.  Ah !  " 

A  shaft  of  blue  had  shot  down  through  the  sunlight  like 
a  sapphire  hand  grenade ;  and  then  from  a  spray  of  sparkling 
water  it  had  swirled  upward  again  to  the  overhanging  limb 
of  a  patriarchal  elm. 

"  The  Kingfisher !  "  Malcolm  said — "  gorging  himself 
with  a  tiny  casket  of  life.  Destruction  is  the  mainspring  of 
creation  it  seems ;  superficially,  beyond  the  sweep  of  the  chief 
destroyer,  Man,  all  is  peace  and  sweetness ;  actually,  it  is  one 
great  war.  The  martens  drive  out  the  sparrows,  and  the 
wren  drives  out  the  marten,  and  the  black-hooded  crow 
prowls,  a  thief  and  a  murderer." 

Malcolm  rose  from  the  bench,  and  we  turned  back  by 
another  path  that  was  like  a  brown  blank  in  the  mottled 
mosaic  of  a  Turkish  rug.  Our  feet  brushed  the  velvet  cheeks 
of  pansies  that  drooped  their  wealth  of  hue  across  our  way; 
and  in  our  nostrils  hung  the  tealike  perfume  that  rolled  in 
clouds  from  a  drape  of  crimson  roses  that  hid  the  high  house 
wall. 


The  Lone  Furrow 


A  pair  of  robins  hopped  grotesquely  in  confident  fear- 
lessness just  beyond  the  string  of  pansy  beads. 

"  That's  a  hardy  cock  robin  for  you,"  Malcolm  said — 
"  the  pair  of  them,  in  fact,  for  they  stayed  by  me  all  winter. 
They're  like  a  good  many  humans,  though,  after  all — they'll 
cleave  so  long  as  you  feed  them.  I  think  the  old  robin  took 
a  delight  in  making  himself  believe  things.  He's  a  bit  like 
the  tiger,  he'll  only  eat  of  his  own  kill — no  dead  meat  for 
him.  I  used  to  hang  a  piece  of  fresh  beef  by  a  string,  and 
the  wind  would  keep  it  moving,  and  whether  he  thought 
it  was  alive,  or  made  a  pretense  of  so  doing,  I  don't  know, 
but  he'd  eat  of  it.  Put  the  same  piece  on  a  board  or  on  the 
ground,  and  he  wouldn't  touch  it." 

We  had  passed  into  the  house  as  Malcolm  talked,  and 
here  again  was  the  same  simplicity  softened  to  beauty  by 
touches  of  color. 

I  had  pictured  Malcolm's  home  as  being  like  some  of  the 
others  I  had  seen,  w-herein  dwelt  people  allied  to  the  soil- 
tiller's  life;  a  furniture  of  utility;  a  decoration  of  limited 
art  instinct  and  tuition;  a  crude,  barren  savagery  of  taste, 
following  in  a  picture  the  lines  of  hardness  and  crudity  of 
color  with  geometric  delight — carrying  the  value  of  a  straight 
furrow  into  a  massacre  of  curving  lines  of  beauty :  a  godless, 
soul-depressing  barrenness,  suggesting  a  perihelion  of  habit- 
able environment,  complement  to  an  existence  devoted  solely 
to  acquisition. 

We  passed  from  a  wide  hall,  the  ring  of  our  heels  on  the 
maple  floor  muffled  in  another  step  by  the  plush  of  a  Turkish 
rug,  to  the  subdued  restfulness  of  a  room  paneled  in  walnut. 
Like  faces  peering  from  the  distance  in  a  Rembrandt,  the 
holdings  of  the  room  crept  gradually  from  the  brown  shad- 

70 


The  Lone   Furrow 


ows  and  claimed  my  eye.  A  piano;  tawny  bookcases,  flicked 
soberly  with  deep  red,  and  rich  ochre,  and  emerald  green, 
where  the  volumes  rested  on  their  shelves. 

Malcolm  threw  up  a  blind,  and  the  light  bathed  a  group 
of  toilers  in  a  wheat  field  eye-level  on  the  wall.  I  knew  the 
sweep  of  the  brush  that  had  fastened  those  pigments  to  the 
canvas. 

"  A  Reid !  "  I  said,  indicating  the  oil. 

"  Yes ;  and  yonder's  another — '  The  Forced  Sale.'  They 
are  windows  looking  out  upon  our  national  life  of  toil  and 
struggle  and  sometimes  failure.  Reid  has  the  soul  of  the 
man  who  wrote,  '  This  is  my  own,  my  native  land.'  " 

Indeed  it  was  a  curious  Bain  that  was  issuing  through 
the  crevices  of  his  armor.  The  divine  truth  flitted  through 
my  mind  on  the  wings  of  fancy,  that  all  this  that  I  saw  of 
refinement,  that  was  like  the  Armless  One  of  Milo  come 
upon  in  a  butcher's  mart,  was  because  of  Jean.  Before 
Malcolm  had  switched  to  the  trail  of  accepted  loneliness, 
perhaps  Jean  had  inspired  all  this  of  delicate  home  arrange- 
ment. 

The  pictures  might  have  meant  offerings  to  the  spirit, 
within  Malcolm  himself,  that  loved  the  pansies,  and  the 
iridescent  brook,  and  the  rose-covered  wall,  but  the  piano 
stood  a  rosewood  monument  to  a  yearning  that  had  died. 
Unconsciously  my  fingers  strayed  to  the  keyboard  cover — 
it  was  locked.  Something  told  me  that  it  had  always  been 
locked,  and  while  Malcolm  lived  it  would  remain  locked. 
Curious  testimony,  these  inanimate  witnesses  gave. 

The  books  climbed  one  wall,  shelf  upon  shelf,  just  as  the 
roses  mounted  the  outer  bricks.  Did  Bain  read  these — their 
backs  carrying  names  that  were  of  a  race  alien  to  the  toilers 

71 


The  Lone  Furrow 


whose  shadows  intercepted  ours  daily  on  the  village  streets? 
What  did  they  know  of  Bacon  and  Tyndal  and  De  Quincey 
and  Steel  and  Addison — or  these  men  of  the  shelves  know 
of  them?  And  if  Bain  hobnobbed  with  Pope  and  Johnson 
and  Dr.  Bentley  in  their  murky  Stagira,  why  did  he  leave 
them  coffined  here  in  their  buckram,  and  gossip  about  the 
price  of  wool  or  the  vile  condition  of  country  roads  with 
the  village  group,  hiding  his  burning  bush  under  a  wooden 
vegetable  measure? 

A  grotesque  fancy  took  me  from  the  other  side  answer- 
ing this  query.  What  if  Bain  had  transported  a  metaphysi- 
cal shadow  from  that  third  shelf  niching  Meister  Eckhart, 
Jacob  Boehme — filled  his  huge  head  with  intricate  passages 
from  Nicholas  of  Cusa,  Barcelsus,  culled  flowers  from  their 
nature  philosophy  of  the  Renaissance,  and,  sitting  by  the  old 
box  stove  in  Reid's  store  had  given  expression  solemnly  to 
something  like :  "  The  soul  of  man,  which  as  a  microcosmos 
resumes  the  nature  of  things,  strives  by  self-abnegation,  or 
self-annihilation,  to  attain  this  unspeakable  reunion,  which 
Eckhart  calls  being  buried  in  God."  I  pictured  what 
would  have  transpired.  MacKay  would  have  thumped  the 
floor  with  his  stick  and  exclaimed:  "God,  man!  where  did 
you  come  by  that?  Are  you  well,  Bain?  "  Willie  Watson 
would  have  pretended  to  get  the  drift  of  it,  likening  it  to  the 
phraseology  of  a  dissertation  on  law  by  Taschereau.  But 
it  would  soon  be  hushed,  driven  from  cognizance  by  some 
one's  complaint  of  how  the  coal  strike  had  driven  up  the 
price  of  firewood  a  dollar  a  cord.  Or  Sweeny  would  tell 
gleefully  how  Bankes,  the  new  milkman,  had  been  done  up 
by  the  simple  farmers  over  his  purchase  of  cows.  How 
that,  knowing  that  Bankes  was  coming  to  buy  a  certain  day, 

72 


The  Lone  Furrow 


they  had  refrained  from  milking  for  twenty-four  hours,  with 
the  result  that  the  cows  displayed  great  capacity  for  milk- 
giving. 

I  turned  from  this  psychology  trail  to  the  more  trodden 
literary  thoroughfare  of  some  late  novels  that,  lying  hap- 
hazard on  a  table,  indicated  perusal. 

Bain  had  been  opening  some  letters  he  had  taken  from  his 
pocket. 

"  I  have  heard  from  three  places,"  he  said,  resting  his 
hand  on  the  letters,  "  but  there's  not  the  slightest  trace  of 
Minister  in  those  parts." 

"  It's  a  terrible  mystery,"  I  commented.  But  not  wish- 
ing to  follow  this  subject  just  then,  I  swung  the  trend  of 
Bain's  thoughts  by  asking:  "  Have  you  read  this  book,  '  The 
Foolish  Marriage,'  and  what  do  you  think  of  it?  " 

"  It's  altogether  weak  and  vicious.  I  don't  know  what 
the  writer  was  after,  unless  it  was  just  a  salacious  clamor 
to  attract  buyers  for  the  book.  Out  in  the  world  they  seem 
just  like  we  are  here  in  the  village;  a  story  affecting  the 
chastity  of  a  woman  will  bring  everyone  on  the  run  to 
listen.  It  just  seems  that  with  the  tying  on  of  the  fig  leaf, 
a  simple  function  of  nature  becomes  a  sinful  mystery,  an 
engrossing  theme  for  morbid  tongues  and  minds.  But  while 
we  here  in  the  village  whisper  it,  holding  our  heads  close 
with  a  slight  tribute  to  the  indecency  of  it,  writers  such  as 
that  author  blazon  it  forth,  not  hesitating  to  run  their  poi- 
soned daggers  into  the  already  dead." 

"  But  I've  heard  it  contended,  Malcolm,  that  such  stories 
as  this,  depicting  sin,  are  a  beneficial  lesson.  I've  always 
thought  myself  that  the  fearless  utterances  of  the  Bible  in 
this  way  were  efficacious.  And  the  American  classic,  '  The 

6  73 


The  Lone  Furrow 


Scarlet  Letter,' — that  deals  altogether  with  the  seduction  of 
a  woman." 

"  There  you're  wrong,  Cameron,"  Bain  exclaimed ;  "  it 
doesn't  touch  on  the  filthiness  of  the  governing  theme,  it 
deals  altogether  with  the  act  as  a  sin,  the  aftermath  of  re- 
morse and  repentance,  and  fear  and  punishment.  That  is 
just  why  it  is  a  great  book,  and  this  one  " — Bain  thrust  the 
"  Marriage  "  from  him  as  though  it  were  carrion — "  this  is 
a  wretched  travesty  upon  the  mental  development.  Physic- 
ally and  spiritually  deteriorate  beings  gyrate  through  its 
fields,  living  in  an  unholy  atmosphere  of  desire,  and  at  the 
end  the  sinners,  who  have  supplied  their  own  temptations, 
come  by  less  of  God's  wrath  than  falls  to  many  a  man  that 
has  led  a  life  of  hard-working  usefulness.  It's  a  dangerous 
book  to  put  in  the  hands  of  any  young  woman  or  young  man, 
for  it's  altogether  of  filthy  desire ;  and  '  The  Scarlet  Letter  ' 
is  a  Puritanical  Indorsement  of  the  infallible  punishment 
which  follows  sin — the  most  bitter  retribution  that  can  come 
to  a  man,  the  prolonged  lashing  of  his  own  conscience.  And 
you  mentioned  the  Bible,  Doctor,  in  the  same  breath  with 
which  you  spoke  of  these  modern  decadent  blueprints — 
where  the  woman  taken  in  adultery  was  brought  before 
Christ,  and  they  were  for  stoning  her.  There  was  no  ex- 
tenuation offered,  even  by  Christ — the  lust  of  the  flesh  was 
not  dragged  up  to  be  paraded  in  palliation.  Christ  looked 
down  and  wrote  in  the  sands,  then  he  said :  '  Go  and  sin 
no  more.'  Isn't  that  the  way  to  deal  with  this  obnoxious 
subject,  Doctor?  She  had  sinned,  according  to  Christ,  be- 
cause he  said  '  Sin  no  more ' — a  command.  That's  a  filthy 
thing  incinerated  to  toleration,  if  such  a  thing  be  possible. 
Just  read  Proverbs  vii  if  you  wish  to  learn  how  this  sin 

74 


The  Lone  Furrow 


is  treated  with  strength  and  with  clean  fearlessness  and  with 
literary  beauty — read  that,  Doctor,  and  you'll  never  more 
be  confused  over  the  relationship  which  exists  between  these 
filthy  books  and  the  Bible." 

Bain's  gray  eyes  were  luminous  with  earnest  intensity; 
it  was  a  new  being  bursting  forth  from  his  solemn  holding. 

"  You've  thought  deeply  on  this  subject,  Bain,"  I  said. 
"  I  must  confess  I  was  rather  surprised  to  see  these  newer 
novels  with  you." 

"  Yes ;  there  are  others  of  the  same  ilk,  showing  the 
decadence  of  men  in  their  gregarious  existence.  Satiated 
mental  appetites  they  come  by,  that  must  be  tickled  by 
scorching  cocktails  of  scribblers'  brewing — the  absinthe  and 
the  brandy  and  the  vermouth  and  the  tabasco  of  literature. 
There  is  '  Man  and  Superman  '  trying  to  prove  God  knows 
what.  I  think  the  author  is  as  much  mystified  by  his 
sophistry  as  any  of  us.  He'll  be  like  that  commentator 
of  Aquinas  whom  Garden  speaks  of  as  having  wept  in  his 
old  age  because  he  could  not  understand  his  own  works. 

"  All  the  big-heralded  books  that  come  to  us  from  the 
hub  of  the  world,  London,  just  have  their  narratives  revolv- 
ing about  the  lifting  of  the  fig  leaf,  as  though  there  were 
nothing  else  of  import  in  the  world  but  the  bestial,  perverted 
sexual  desires  of  men  and  women  led  out  of  healthy  reason- 
ing by  just  such  constant  expression  of  thought  as  these 
very  books  contain.  And  the  pages  are  smeared  over  with 
glamourous  attributes  of  silks  and  satins  and  jewels  and 
wines,  draping  the  hideous  skeleton  of  this  perpetual  rutting 
which  places  man  as  the  lowest  of  animals — for  the  others 
have  their  seasons,  ordained  by  nature — until  the  young 
reader,  standing  on  the  threshold  of  life,  with  its  many  paths 

75 


The  Lone  Furrow 


leading  into  the  future,  sees  the  wrong  trail,  the  one  lead- 
ing to  destruction,  rose-bordered,  a  gentle  gradient,  smooth 
of  transverse,  and  hears  voices  more  seductive  than  those 
that  Odysseus  waxed  his  companion's  ears  against.  They're 
just  horrible,  these  books.  There's  one,  the  most  depraved 
thing  in  all  literature,  '  The  Picture  of  Dorian  Gray.'  A 
brilliant,  gifted  man  cast  in  that  Sybaritic  town,  that  is  a 
thousand  times  worse  than  the  old  place  on  the  banks  of 
Tarantum,  drew  this  sketch  from  the  knowledge  of  his  eye 
and  his  experience.  I  read  these  books  because  I  want  to 
know  how  the  trend  of  thought  is  out  in  the  world;  they 
can't  hurt  me,  but  they  make  me  sad ;  they  reconcile  me  to 
the  lesser  sins  of  our  people  here.  Books  are  grand  com- 
panions when  we  take  the  upright  man  by  the  hand,  and, 
following  a  strong  line  of  his  rugged  contour,  shape  our 
own  by  it;  and  the  profligates,  the  indecents,  make  us  more 
charitable  toward  men  of  our  own  knowledge,  whose  short- 
comings fade  away  to  nothing  in  the  fierce  heinous  light 
thrown  by  these  sons  of  Ahab.  But  for  the  young  and  un- 
thinking, the  good  books  to  build  the  character  first,  to  the 
end  that  when  they  chance  upon  the  other  it  will  be  seen  in 
its  own  muck." 

"  The  London  life  seems  to  engender  a  morbid  taste  for 
a  literature  of  illicit  motif,"  I  offered ;  "  thieves'  tales  or 
bull-necked  parsons  or  '  My  Lady  Careless ' — even  in  the 
theaters  it  is  the  same  salacious  seasoning — indeed  the  whole 
dish  is  of  but  putrid  morals;  but  it  is  for  themselves,  and 
we  here  in  Canada  need  not  be  affected  by  it." 

"  But  we  cannot  escape  its  poisoned  breath,"  Bain  ar- 
gued— "  we  are  so  very  English  here.  It's  a  matter  of  faith 
with  us  to  hold  up  our  hand  in  horror  at  any  evil  report 

76 


The  Lone  Furrow 


from  the  States,  and  say  in  pity,  as  Hosea  said  of  Ephraim, 
the  Yankee  '  is  wedded  to  his  idols,  let  him  depart.'  Also, 
\ve  consider  him  like  Ephraim  again  in  being  but  '  an  un- 
turned cake  '  in  the  way  of  morals  and  culture  and  litera- 
ture— so  we  cleave  to  the  London  faith  for  our  reading,  de- 
claiming that  we  are  patriots,  empire  sustainers.  And  the 
harm  this  vile  picturing  of  English  home  life  will  do  is  in- 
calculable. It  will  destroy  all  regard  for  the  home  people; 
it  will  offset  much  of  the  present  endeavor  to  draw  the 
people  of  Canada  and  the  people  of  England  into  a  closer 
relationship,  a  relationship  which  must  depend  altogether 
upon  mutual  regard,  for  it's  useless  to  talk  of  regulating  the 
bond  of  unity  by  treaty — official  bargains,  like  other  material 
deals,  are  sure  to  be  broken  when  the  profit  becomes  one- 
sided." 

"  Better  the  old  books  on  the  shelves,  Malcolm,"  I  sug- 
gested. 

"  Perhaps,"  he  said  inconclusively ;  "  but  the  thunder  of 
philosophy  that  is  in  them  deadens  the  small  voice  of  truth, 
I  fear — the  clatter  of  dishes  more  impressive  than  the  food 
they  carry.  They've  all  bowed  down  to  Bacon's  '  Idola 
Forti ' — the  Idols  of  the  Marketplace ;  standing  words  on 
their  weak  legs  as  the  embodiment  of  nonexistent  things. 
De  Quincey  divided  literature  into  three  parts;  he  might 
have  pruned  closer  and  carried  it  forward  with  two,  as  most 
things  in  creation  are — pro  and  con,  for  and  against,  for 
God  or  against  God,  for  good  or  for  evil;  the  rest  is  but 
a  subdivisional  ramification  of  letters.  There's  a  book," 
Malcolm  said,  indicating  a  volume  of  philosophic  writings; 
"  it  holds  nothing  but  derelicts  bound  in  the  floating  weeds 
of  uselessness.  It  is  a  Sargasso  grave  of  floating  sepulchers 

77 


The  Lone  Furrow 


of  silence,  carrying  the  dead  bodies  of  wrecked  theories.  In 
it  we  find  page  upon  page  of  elaboration  seeking  to  prove 
that  the  New  Testament  was  not  inspired  because  its  litera- 
ture is  crude  and  barbarous;  the  writer  holding  that  divine 
literature  should  be  as  pure  as  Plato's  and  eloquent  as 
Cicero's.  And  against  him  is  Warburton,  proving  that  it 
was  inspired  because  it  is  barbarous  in  expression.  Just  the 
Idols  of  the  Marketplace — words.  When  shutting  the  door 
upon  all  this  book  wisdom,  we  may  come  out  into  the  glori- 
ous sunshine,  and  the  fields  yielding  sustenance  to  man,  and 
flowers  to  gladden  his  heart ;  and  not  one  of  these  philosophers 
could  do  what  that  lily  you  see  through  the  window  has 
done.  A  root  delves  in  the  black  muck  and  brings  up  that 
beautiful  form,  always  true  to  its  delicate  conception.  All 
the  Man  philosophy  in  the  world  cannot  create  one  simple 
thing  such  as  that.  It  may  blend  and  make  hybrids,  it  may 
deviate  these  created  things  from  their  original  paths,  but  it 
cannot  create  them." 

"  You  should  have  been  a  writer  of  philosophy  yourself, 
Malcolm,"  I  hazarded.  "  It  is  marvelous  that  you  should  be 
content  with  this  empty  village  life." 

"  I  am  content  for  want  of  a  road  to  greater  content- 
ment." 

"  You  were  for  the  ministry  at  one  time,"  I  said. 

"  I  soon  found  I  wasn't  fitted  for  it.  I'd  have  made  a 
poor  servant — not  to  God ;  I  think  I  could  have  labored  for 
Him,  but  there  are  intermediate  agents  that  will  harass  a 
man.  I  was  afraid  of  the  bit  physical  strength  I  have;  I 
don't  just  realize  its  full  extent  when  I'm  roused.  And  I've 
seen  occasions  when  not  even  the  restriction  of  the  Cloth 
would  have  kept  my  hands  from  the  throat  of  some  black- 

78 


The  Lone  Furrow 


guard;  and  perhaps,  not  knowing  it,  I  might  have  held  him 
till  he  was  dead,  and  that  for  a  minister — it  would  not  do, 
I  was  afraid." 

I  knew  well  that  what  Malcolm  said  was  simply  a  state- 
ment of  the  truth,  for  once  in  the  village  when  two  hulking 
brutes  had  insulted  a  girl,  terrorizing  the  little  constable  till 
he  was  afraid  to  lay  hands  on  them,  Malcolm  had  throttled 
one  so  energetically  that  it  was  a  question  if  he'd  ever  come  to. 

"  But  you're  wasting  great  capabilities,  Malcolm,"  I 
ventured ;  "  you  would  have  succeeded  in  almost  anything." 

"  I  might  have  made  money  that  I  don't  need,"  he  an- 
swered simply;  "perhaps  taken  it  from  some  one  who  re- 
quires it.  That's  the  generally  accepted  idea  of  usefulness, 
the  acquisition  of  worldly  goods;  men  wreck  their  bodies  and 
their  souls  over  the  laying  up  of  stores  they'll  never  use. 
One  can't  engage  in  any  business  nowadays  without  being 
at  the  throats  of  others,  and  them  clutching  at  his.  With 
a  large  capital  I  might  have  employed  labor,  with  the  laborer 
to  revile  me  as  a  heartless  capitalist  grinding  the  last  ounce 
of  force  from  his  body;  and  perhaps  I  might  have  come  to 
look  upon  him  as  a  treacherous,  skulking  ingrate ;  if  I  believed 
in  him  and  trusted  in  him  I  should  possibly  find  myself  a 
bankrupt.  As  it  is,  I  can  do  a  little  good  now  and  then ;  hav- 
ing time  to  supervise  these  little  matters,  the  bit  money  goes 
farther  in  the  way  of  alleviation.  As  you're  thinking,  Doctor, 
it's  just  a  curious  little  sidetrack  in  life  that  I'm  following; 
not  much  of  a  goal  at  the  farther  end,  but,  in  reality,  just 
the  same  goal  that  awaits  us  all  alike.  '  The  paths  of  glory 
lead  but  to  the  grave,'  and  a  simple,  truthful  sticking  to  our 
own  path  is  the  greatest  kind  of  glory." 

From  the  hall  came  the  heavy  boom  of  a  standing  clock. 

79 


The  Lone  Furrow 


"Man  alive — it's  five  o'clock!"  Bain  exclaimed;  "I've 
gabbled  for  an  hour.  Will  you  have  a  cup  of  tea — Jennie  is 
somewhere  about  and  she'll  draw  it  for  us?  After  that  I'll 
walk  back  to  the  village  with  you  to  let  the  sound  of  your 
voice  take  the  din  of  my  own  from  my  ears." 

As  we  walked  back  to  the  Hedge  there  was  little  talk 
from  either  of  us,  my  mind  subdued  by  the  curious  loosening 
up  of  Bain  that  cast  me  in  a  mood  of  reflection.  What  a 
strong  factor  in  life  he  might  have  been  had  Jean  unlocked 
that  piano.  And  yet  was  he  not  altogether  grand  in  his  soli- 
tary breadth  and  honesty  and  beauty? 


80 


CHAPTER   VI 

|OW  the  days  came  in  a  procession.  It  is  curi- 
ous how,  when  one  waits  expectant,  that  a 
day  which  brings  forth  nothing  of  fulfillment 
seems  a  period  of  utter  uselessness.  A  great 
sorrow  narrows  the  vision. 
Bain  and  others  strove  in  vain  to  solve  the  mystery  of 
the  minister's  going.  There  was  absolutely  no  starting  point 
to  work  from.  Even  the  man  who  was  supposed  to  have 
seen  Minister  at  the  railway  station  the  day  he  disappeared 
destroyed  the  faint  clew  by  now  confessing  that  he  was  prob- 
ably mistaken ;  he  had  since  observed  a  stranger  getting  on 
and  off  the  train  several  times  whom  he  had  undoubtedly 
taken  for  Neil  Munro  that  morning.  Minister  often  walked 
to  the  railway  station  for  exercise,  so  he  might  have  been 
seen  there  that  day,  and  yet  not  taken  a  train.  He  certainly 
had  not  bought  a  ticket,  for  the  agent  knew  him  well,  and 
was  positive  upon  this  point. 

One  morning  Bain  came  to  the  Hedge,  his  face  carrying 
a  cloud  of  depression.  My  heart  jumped  to  my  mouth;  had 
he  heard  some  dreadful  news,  learned  some  awful  reality? 
His  words  relieved  me. 

"  There  is  a  scribe  in  town,"  he  said.    "  The  York  Times 
81 


The  Lone  Furrow 


has  sent  one  of  its  reporters,  and  the  paper  will  be  full  of 
how  you  feed  your  hens,  Doctor,  and  how  the  Scots  are  at 
one  another's  throats.  There'll  be  a  picture  of  the  deserted 
wife,  and  dark  hints  of  a  woman  in  the  case;  or  that  Neil 
stole  the  contents  of  the  plate.  Man  alive!  I've  a  notion 
to  take  the  matter  in  hand  and  souse  yon  gosling  in  the 
pond.  He's  the  freshest  wee  bit  mannie  I've  seen  for  many 
a  day.  He  asked  me  if  I  thought  it  was  a  case  of  another 
minister  gone  wrong;  and  followed  this  up  by  saying — oh, 
the  gosling! — that  he'd  heard  hints  of  some  lady  in  the  choir, 
Miss  Harkett — man,  he  had  the  name  right  enough — that 
there  was  suspicion  of  intimacy  between  Minister  and  little 
Teacher.  Heavens!  Doctor,  if  it  hadn't  been  so  laughable, 
I'd  have  smashed  him.  It  was  just  the  name  that  saved  him 
— Miss  Harkett.  I  saw  through  it  at  once;  it  was  a  fool's 
joke.  There  are  men  that  would  try  to  poke  fun  at  the 
Lord,  I  think." 

"Yes;  just  fancy!  Teacher's  name  associated  with  that 
of  any  man  is  certainly  droll." 

"  I  think  I  know  the  beast  that  loaded  the  fool  up  with 
all  this — Archie  MacKillop;  and  it's  not  all  just  humor 
either,  there's  a  touch  of  vitriol  in  it.  I'll  square  matters 
with  him  some  day,  if  he's  not  careful.  Oh,  but  the  boy 
scribe  is  going  to  have  a  wonderful  story.  I  saw  a  head- 
line on  one  of  his  notes,  '  Mystery  in  the  Ministry.'  I 
thought  I'd  best  warn  you,  Doctor;  you  might  speak  to  Mrs. 
Munro  and  see  if  the  Manse  is  all  tight  shut,  for  that  in- 
quisitive body  might  get  round  some  of  the  elders  that  are 
against  Neil,  and  make  entry  into  the  house." 

"  That  would  do  him  no  good,"  I  said. 

"  No,  it  wouldn't.  There'll  be  no  wrong  there ;  but  he'd 
82 


The  Lone  Furrow 


make  evil  of  it  sure — he'd  invent  something;  and  have  a  pic- 
ture of  Minister's  study,  or  something  to  prove  it.  The 
liberty  of  the  Press  is  a  grand  thing,  Doctor." 

"  Well,  I'll  speak  about  it,"  I  told  Malcolm.  And  when 
he  had  gone  I  waited  for  Jean  to  appear.  Waiting,  Robert 
Craig  came  in.  As  I  looked  into  his  face  I  had  a  wish 
that  the  lacrosse  season  and  the  football  and  the  other 
sports  were  done  with  for  the  year.  The  athletics  that  were 
devised  for  the  physical  betterment  of  the  young  men  in 
his  case  had  a  detrimental  effect ;  they  led  to  too  much  good 
fellowship.  Where  some  of  the  others  could  make  one  night 
of  it  and  abstain  for  weeks,  he  couldn't.  It  just  seemed 
useless  to  trouble  over  it  though,  for  in  the  winter  there 
would  be  dances  and  parties  and  holiday  times — yes,  it  was 
hopeless. 

Jean  came  out  to  where  we  sat  just  as  my  mind  had 
struck  this  minor  chord  of  despair,  and  I  was  glad  of  even 
the  troublous  question  of  locks  and  bolts. 

I  drew  it  very  gently  about  the  reporter,  suggesting  that 
I  should  go  up  and  see  if  everything  at  the  house  were  all 
right.  Jean  gave  me  the  door  key,  and  then  another,  smaller, 
saying:  "This  is  the  key  of" — she  hesitated,  eliding  her 
husband's  name — "  of  the  study.  I  just  locked  the  door. 
I've  been  wanting  to  ask  you  before  this,  but  hesitated,  not 
wishing  to  trouble  you  too  much,  to  bring  me  any  letters 
or  papers  that  might  be  on  the  desk — there  were  some,  I 
remember." 

"  Give  me  the  key,  Doctor,"  Robert  asked ;  "  I'll  run  up 
— it  won't  take  me  a  minute.  You  needn't  bother — you  have 
your  writing." 

"  I  don't  mind  in  the  least,"  I  said,  putting  on  my  hat. 

83 


I  was  sure  Jean's  face  had  clouded  when  her  brother  had 
asked  for  the  key. 

"  Well,  I'll  go  with  you,"  Robert  declared. 

When  we  entered  the  Manse  the  boy  said:  "  Everything 
is  all  right  here,  just  as  it  was  when  that  Pharisee  went 
away." 

"  Why  do  you  call  him  that  harsh  name,  Robert — he 
may  be  dead." 

"  He's  not  dead — why  should  you  think  of  him  as  being 
dead  ?  "  The  boy's  voice  was  querulous  and  his  face  wore 
a  petulant,  nervous  look ;  his  mental  disturbance  seemed  due 
to  something  of  the  present,  rather  than  to  past  dissipation. 

He  repeated  his  question  petulantly.  "  Have  you  or 
Malcolm  heard  anything  that  you  are  hiding — why  do  you 
say  Munro  is  dead  ?  " 

"  There  is  no  trace  of  him  living ;  a  man  doesn't  sud- 
denly melt  into  thin  air." 

"  No,  not  even  if  he  is  dead — they'd  find  his  body.  They 
haven't;  therefore  he's  alive,  and  will  return — when  he 
gets  ready." 

"  He  may  have  been  murdered,"  I  argued  doggedly ; 
"  killed  and  his  body  hidden." 

"Who  would  murder  a  penniless  minister?  And  if 
they  did,  it  would  be  small  loss  to  anyone,  least  of  all  to 
Munro  himself." 

I  laid  my  hands  on  the  boy's  arm — he  had  shocked  me. 
I  attributed  his  words  to  just  a  reckless,  irritable  frame  of 
mind,  the  aftermath  of  dissipation;  his  nervous,  sensitive 
temperament  was  subject  to  this  uncontrollable  mood  after 
a  drinking  bout,  I  knew  well. 

"  Don't  be  so  bitter,  Robert,"  I  admonished ;  "  you  don't 

84 


The  Lone  Furrow 


mean  what  you  say.  I  don't  know  wrhy  you  have  turned 
against  Neil,  and  I  don't  want  to,  but  I  tell  you  this,  boy — 
mind,  I  don't  believe  it  will  come  to  pass,  but  if  Neil  were 
found  murdered,  or  even  dead  from  his  own  hand  anywhere 
about  here,  your  idle  words  might  stand  forever  against  you. 
You  know  the  trouble  Phelan  had  to  clear  his  name  when  his 
wife's  body  was  found  in  the  river.  Indeed,  to  this  day  the 
gossips — and  there  are  many  of  them  in  the  village — shake 
their  heads  ominously  when  the  subject  is  mentioned.  It 
was  proven  that  she  committed  suicide,  but  that  doesn't 
still  the  evil  tongues." 

A  look  of  fright  came  in  the  boy's  eyes.  He  hadn't 
thought  of  the  interpretation  that  might  be  put  upon  his 
careless  words.  I  had  no  idea  myself  that  it  would  ever 
come  to  this,  and  spoke  more  to  bridle  his  tongue,  for  Neil's 
and  Jean's  sake — frighten  him  into  silence,  for  he  evidently 
had  some  sudden  cause  for  antipathy  to  Munro. 

"  You're  right,  Doctor,"  he  said,  veering  around  to  a 
mollified  complacence.  "  But  Munro  is  just  in  hiding  some 
place  and  will  be  found — unless  he  makes  away  with  him- 
self." 

"  It's  too  grewsome ;  don't  let's  talk  about  it  any  more, 
Robert." 

"  Yes,  it  is.  You  might  look  at  the  back  door,  Doctor — 
see  if  it's  fastened.  Give  me  the  key;  I'll  run  up  to  the 
study.  I  know  where  Munro  kept  his  papers;  I'll  take  them 
all  back  to  Jean." 

A  curious  suspicion  that  the  boy  wanted  to  keep  me 
from  going  to  the  study  took  possession  of  my  mind.  It 
was  something  in  his  eager  nervousness,  his  insistence  upon 
getting  possession  of  the  key,  that  bred  this  feeling. 

85 


The  Lone  Furrow 


"  We'll  go  up  together,"  I  answered.  "  In  dealing  with 
another  man's  papers  it  removes  the  constrained  feeling  to 
have  two  present.  Come  on,  we'll  go  up  together." 

As  I  opened  the  study  door  Robert  stepped  quickly  past 
me.  I  saw  him  give  Munro's  desk  a  sweeping  scrutiny. 

"  There  are  some  letters,  Doctor,"  he  said ;  "  tie  them 
in  a  packet — here  are  some  rubber  bands." 

As  I  gathered  the  loose  papers  I  heard  Robert  nervously 
opening  drawers,  and  a  crackling  noise  as  of  a  small  lock 
being  forced  caused  me  to  turn  my  eyes  in  time  to  see  the 
boy  slip  something  in  his  coat  pocket.  He  caught  my  in- 
quiring look,  I  fancy,  for  he  said  in  an  explanatory  way, 
"  Neil's  photograph — Jean  will  want  to  have  it." 

"  The  very  thing,"  I  said ;  "  we  may  use  it  in  tracing 
Munro  if  he  doesn't  return  soon." 

I  put  the  letters  I  had  gathered  in  my  pocket.  Turning 
from  the  desk  I  noticed  a  paper  on  the  floor  that  perhaps 
had  fallen  from  the  drawer  Robert  had  opened.  I  stooped 
to  pick  it  up,  and  as  I  did  so  an  odor  struck  my  nostrils 
with  a  force  that  arrested  attention.  It  was  an  odor  new 
to  me,  fiercely  penetrating,  sickening,  its  very  radiating  per- 
fume suggesting  evil. 

Involuntarily  as  I  picked  the  fallen  paper  from  the  floor 
I  carried  it  to  my  nose.  It,  too,  radiated  that  odor.  It 
was  an  unpleasant  smell ;  yet  it  aroused  my  curiosity. 

"What's  the  matter,  Doctor?"  the  boy  asked.  "Give 
me  that  paper.  I'm  going  to  burn  these  that  are  in  the 
wastebasket  in  the  grate." 

He  thrust  his  hand  out  eagerly  for  the  sheet  I  held, 
and  closed  the  half  open  drawer  with  a  nervous  move- 
ment. 

86 


The  Lone  Furrow 


"What's  that  odor?"  I  asked;  "it's  dreadful!  I  can 
imagine  it  a  snake  poison  or  something  vicious." 

"  I  don't  know — I  haven't  noticed  anything,"  he  an- 
swered. 

Something  in  his  voice  caused  me  to  look  at  him.  His 
eyes  struggled  to  hide  a  lie  and  his  weak  lips  were  trembling. 

The  odor  once  in  my  nostrils  clung  to  me;  it  was  like 
an  evil  spirit ;  like  some  indistinct  devil  in  a  nightmare. 

A  pair  of  Munro's  gloves  were  lying  on  a  chair  by  the 
desk.  I  picked  them  up  and  put  them  away  in  one  of  the 
drawers,  noticing  that  they  carried  the  same  heavy  odor.  It 
now  seemed  to  permeate  the  room.  With  an  uncontrollable 
curiosity  I  carried  pens,  a  paper  knife,  even  a  Bible  to  my 
nostrils — they  were  all  possessed  of  this  invisible  spirit  of 
repugnance.  I  saw  the  boy  watching  me  with  suspicious, 
angry  eyes. 

"  Are  you  acquiring  Munro's  scent  so  that  you  can  trace 
him  like  a  bloodhound  ?  "  he  said  presently  in  a  sneering 
voice.  "  If  you've  got  it,  Doctor,  we'll  go." 

I  did  not  answer  him.  We  locked  the  door  behind  us, 
and  out  in  sunshine  I  drew  a  deep  breath  to  wash  from 
my  lungs  the  horrible  stench  that  was  stifling. 

It  was  curious  how  such  a  seemingly  small  thing  took 
possession  of  me — I  could  think  of  nothing  else.  A  hundred 
different  perfumes  of  flowers  and  drugs  and  chemicals  I 
summoned  from  memory,  seeking  in  vain  for  a  correspond- 
ing one. 

Suddenly  I  remembered  that  Robert  had  exhibited  no 
curiosity  over  this  that  had  troubled  me.  Did  he  know  what 
it  was?  If  so,  why  had  he  offered  no  explanation?  He 
must  have  been  lying  when  he  said  he  had  not  noticed  it; 

8? 


The  Lone   Furrow 


it  would  have  asserted  itself  even  to  the  dullest  sense  of 
smell. 

My  mind  hardly  carried  a  suspicion  of  anything  in  re- 
gard to  Robert.  That  he  knew  something  about  Munro 
that  the  rest  of  us  did  not,  was  more  than  a  suspicion;  it 
was  a  certainty.  I  rehearsed  the  little  scene  in  the  Manse; 
Robert's  nervous  irritability  when  I  spoke  of  Neil;  his  in- 
sistence that  Neil  was  alive;  his  anxiety  to  go  to  the  study 
alone;  the  surreptitious  placing  of  the  photograph  in  his 
pocket — yes,  that  was  curious;  it  would  have  been  so  natural 
for  anyone  suddenly  coming  upon  Neil's  picture  to  have 
shown  it,  criticised  it.  Why  did  he  wish  me  not  to  see  it? 

It  was  after  Robert  had  left,  going  up  to  the  tavern, 
that  I  suddenly  fell  to  wondering  if  it  really  were  a  picture 
of  Neil  he  had  put  in  his  pocket.  A  conviction  forced  itself 
upon  me  that  it  was  not;  something  else — but  what? 

I  passed  into  the  house  and  asked  Jean  if  she  had  got 
her  husband's  photo  among  the  papers. 

"  No,"  she  answered.  "  I  think  Neil  never  had  one 
taken ;  he  had  a  curious  objection  to  it." 

Evidently  Robert's  statement  was  untrue.  What  object 
was  it  that  had  been  of  so  much  importance  that  he  felt 
called  upon  to  deceive  me?  Not  money,  for  with  all  his 
addiction  to  liquor,  the  boy  was  the  soul  of  honor;  it  was 
bred  in  the  Craig  blood,  nothing  could  eradicate  that. 

A  sickening  remembrance  of  Robert's  face  going  white 
when  I  had  spoken  of  how  his  words  would  be  misconstrued 
if  Neil  were  found  dead  came  to  me,  and  I  strove  to  put 
it  away.  The  boy  simply  had  no  nerves  of  reliability ;  they 
were  weak,  shattered,  unstrung  cords  that  vibrated  treach- 
erously to  every  little  gust  of  unusuality.  But  what  an 

88 


The  Lone  Furrow 


awful  thing  it  would  be  if  the  reporter,  with  a  desire  for  a 
thrilling  story,  should  even  hint  at  the  possibility  of  foul 
play!  Jean's  brother  was  the  last  person  known  to 
have  seen  Munro,  and  their  interview  had  ended  in  a  fierce 
quarrel. 

My  God!  I  might  be  called  upon,  forced,  to  give  as 
circumstantial  evidence  the  vague  impressions  that  were  now 
in  my  mind. 

I  was  gloomed,  morbid.  I  rushed  into  the  sunlight. 
I  called  Blitz,  and  strode  away  for  miles  over  the  hills,  and 
filled  my  lungs  with  the  glorious  breath  of  the  hay  fields 
and  pine  woods  and  quickened  my  blood  to  a  healthier 
thought. 

When  I  returned  I  found  that  the  reporter  had  been 
to  the  Hedge.  With  professional  insistence  he  had  suc- 
ceeded in  interviewing  Jean;  but  her  quiet  sense  had  stood 
her  in  good  stead. 

Minister  Munro  had  gone  away  for  a  little  rest,  that 
was  all  he  could  glean  from  Jean. 

After  all  I  was  glad  I  had  not  been  at  home.  Perhaps 
my  anger  at  his  intrusion  would  have  caused  him  to  re- 
taliate unpleasantly  in  his  account  of  the  mystery. 

The  next  evening  the  York  Times  contained  the  re- 
porter's version  of  "  A  Mystery  in  the  Ministry."  The 
report  itself  was  a  remarkable  contribution  to  literature,  an 
exasperating  pot  pourri  of  facts  and  fancies.  Fortunately 
for  the  good  name  of  lona  the  writer  was  safe  in  York ;  the 
villagers  would  certainly  have  slain  him — they  would  have 
tossed  him  gladly  into  the  pond,  at  least. 

For  twenty  years  a  small  coterie  of  villagers  had  gath- 
ered nightly  in  Hugh  Reid's  grocery  store  for  converse.  It 
7  89 


The  Lone  Furrow 


\v;is  a  dull  evening,  drawn  blank,  when  nothing  but  poli- 
tics and  the  weather  were  served  up.  Some  one  of  the 
half  dozen  seated  around  the  square  box  stove  was  sure 
to  have  a  subject  of  wondrous  interest.  Winter  or  summer 
the  stove  was  there,  and  the  same  seats;  two  sugar  barrels, 
for  the  brown  and  the  white,  a  couple  of  loose  boxes  ready 
to  be  pulled  up,  the  little  table,  on  the  farther  end  of  which 
were  the  ham  and  bacon  on  cut,  and  two  chairs.  These 
seats  filled,  other  attendants  stood. 

Ever  since  the  disappearance  of  Minister  and  the  taking 
of  the  Skipper  these  subjects  had  been  almost  the  sole  topics, 
and  this  night  the  caucus  was  nicely  under  way  when  Willie 
Watson,  the  Town  Clerk,  appeared  with  a  copy  of  the 
York  Evening  Times  in  his  hand,  and  the  pleasing  pos- 
session of  something  new  in  his  mind. 

His  quasi  legal  profession  had  inculcated  in  Willie  a 
love  for  dramatic  effect.  He  knew  what  was  in  the  paper, 
and  he  also  noted  that  none  of  the  others  had  come  by 
their  copies  yet. 

The  papers  came  by  the  evening  train,  and  Willie  had 
sapiently  waited  at  the  newsdealer's  for  his  Times,  having 
used  his  cross-examining  faculty  to  draw  from  the  reporter 
the  information  that  his  report  would  be  in  that  issue. 
Watson  had  glanced  hastily  through  the  daily  and  then 
hurried  to  the  gathering  of  the  gossips. 

Teamster  Dick  Sweeny  was  saying:  "Well,  b'ys,  yon 
detective  that  they've  put  on  the  Minister's  track  has  got 
something  up  his  sleeve,  mark  my  words.  I  had  a  drink 
with  him  at  the  tavern." 

"What  does  he  think  of  the  case,  Dick?"  asked  Dun- 
can Anderson,  the  Insurance  Agent. 

90 


The  Lone  Furrow 


"  That's  what  I  asked  him  myself,  Dune,  an'  he  just 
looked  wise  at  me." 

"  That  rooster's  got  a  sharp  eye  in  his  head,"  Ander- 
son commented. 

"  He's  got  a  still  tongue,  b'ys,"  Sweeny  added.  "  Just 
the  same,  he  thinks  there's  something  back  of  all  this." 

"What  came  of  yon  newspaper  fellow?  I  ain't  seen 
nothin'  of  his  in  the  Times?"  queried  Dugald  MacFarlane. 
"  He  got  hold  of  a  story  here  that  the  Minister  had  eloped 
with  the  organist." 

Everybody  laughed ;  it  was  an  incongruous  picture. 

"  Say,  b'ys,"  said  Sweeny,  "  I'll  bet  she'd  swat  a  man 
quick  that  would  go  for  to  kiss  her.  Faith,  she'd  run  a 
mile  if  a  feller  winked  at  her." 

"  She's  a  sweet  little  body  all  the  same,"  declared  Mac- 
Farlane. 

"  Faith,  I'll  tell  you  what  I  think  about  it,  b'ys,"  con- 
tinued Sweeny.  "  Munro  was  a  little  off  his  base.  He 
shut  himself  up  with  books  an'  writin'  an'  sermons  an' 
prayin'  till  he  got  sick.  If  he'd  gone  to  the  bush  an'  chopped 
a  cord  of  wood  every  day,  he  wouldn't  of  looked  so  ganted 
up  an'  blue  about  the  gills.  I  mind  myself  the  winter  I 
was  watchman  at  the  factory  here.  I  hadn't  a  thing  to 
do  but  eat.  Say,  b'ys,  I  was  goin'  queer  in  the  nut.  I've 
seen  me  go  out  on  the  road  in  the  moonlight  an'  chase 
a  shadow  for  a  mile.  S'help  me,  God!  b'ys,  that's  no  lie, 
I  did  for  a  week  .straight  on  end.  I  could  see  the  thing 
ahead  of  me  on  the  snow,  an'  what  d'ye  s'pose  it  was — 
a  string  on  the  peak  of  me  cap.  If  anyone  banged  a  door 
I'd  jump  a  foot  in  the  air.  I  took  patent  medicines  till 
I  had  a  drug  store  inside  me.  Say,  b'ys,  I  was  drug  pow- 

91 


The  Lone  Furrow 


ders  to  there.  S'help  me,  God !  I  was  " ;  and  the  speaker 
marked  off  with  a  hand  the  first  button  from  the  bottom 
of  his  vest.  "  I  was  iron  pills  and  tonic  washes  to  there  " ; 
his  hand  rose  a  button.  "  There  was  salts  an'  sennie  an' 
herb  teas  to  there  " ;  his  hand  caught  the  commencement  of 
a  faded  green  tie  at  this.  "  An'  just  at  the  bottom  of  me 
throat  I  could  taste  the  goldashest  bitter  stuff  that  Mother 
Kelly  swore  by — she  give  me  a  big  bottle  av  it.  I  was 
full  up,  as  I  say,  of  medicals,  and  me  chewin'  gum  to  beat 
the  band  all  the  time.  I  got  that  weak,  be-gob — I  couldn't 
lift  me  ax,  and  thin  I  found  all  the  cure  I  needed  was  more 
liftin'  of  the  same.  Work — work — that's  what  done  it — ax- 
handle  oil." 

"  It's  all  here  in  the  Times"  interrupted  Willie,  and 
drawing  from  his  pocket  the  paper  he  tapped  it  dramatically 
with  a  finger. 

"What's  there,  Watson?"  queried  MacKay. 

"  The  reason  for  the  disappearance  of  Minister." 

"Read  it,  man,  read  it;  let's  hear  what  yon  gosling's 
got  to  say,"  cried  MacFarlane. 

Watson  took  off  his  hat,  smoothed  his  gray  hair  back  with 
one  hand,  took  a  drink  of  water  from  the  pitcher  that  was 
always  on  the  counter,  stared  over  the  top  of  his  glasses 
critically  at  his  audience,  and  then  read  the  daily-expected 
write  up.  There  was  a  headline  worded  "  Dissension  in 
the  Church." 

"  I  wasna  aware  of  any  trouble  myself,"  said  MacFar- 
lane. "  I'm  thinkin'  yon  lad  was  a  bit  o'  a  liar." 

"  Oh,  we  hae  perfect  harmony,"  declared  MacKay,  wink- 
ing at  Sweeny. 

"  '  The  Minister  was  a  temperance  man,'  "  read  Watson, 
92 


The  Lone  Furrow 


'  '  and  some  of  the  church  elders  thought  he  was  too  per- 
sonal in  denouncing  the  drink  from  the  pulpit.'  " 

"  That's  expleecit,"  commented  MacKay.  "  That  brings 
it  doon  to  five  individuals,  including  three  that're  present." 

"  The  Minister  or  no  other  man  ever  saw  me  the  worse 
of  liquor,"  declared  Anderson  hotly.  He  was  an  elder. 

"  I  take  a  drop  meself,"  said  farmer  John  MacRae,  "  but 
I'm  no  a  drunkard.  An'  if  I  had  yon  scraggy  runt  of  a 
writer  here  I'd  treat  him  to  something  stronger  than 
whisky."  He  was  also  an  elder. 

'  That's  your  Tory  paper,  MacKay,  with  its  policy  of 
slander,"  sneered  MacFarlane. 

At  this  juncture  Malcolm  Bain  came  into  the  store 
for  a  purchase,  but  there  was  a  barricade  wall  of  flour 
bags  that  hid  him  from  the  group  around  the  stove  and 
they  were  not  aware  of  his  presence. 

Watson  was  reading  in  a  monotonous  voice  some  inter- 
esting generalities  when  he  suddenly  stopped  and  said: 
"  Listen,  MacKay — you'll  enjoy  this,  I  know." 

Then  he  read: 

"  '  One  of  the  church  members  is  an  enthusiastic  disciple  of  Izaak 
Walton.  He  is  also  a  Government  official.  One  Sabbath  the 
Rev.  Munro  preached  against  the  disregard  of  the  sanctity  of  the 
day  of  rest,  intimating  that  some  of  his  congregation  were  given  to 
casting  a  line  in  the  brook  instead  of  listening  to  God's  word  in  the 
kirk.  The  pew  of  the  official  spoken  of  was  empty  that  day,  and 
it  was  whispered  that  the  Minister's  remarks  were  leveled  at  him.'  ' 

Watson  lowered  the  paper  and  looked  over  his  glasses 
mournfully.  The  two  angry  elders  smiled,  and  MacRae 
coughed  suggestively.  MacKay  stared  in  blank  amazement. 

93 


The  Lone  Furrow 


"Of  a'  the  liars!  I've  never  strung  a  rod  in  my  life 
on  the  Sabbath.  Some  one  in  lona  has  just  loaded  yon  gos- 
ling up  out  of  spite.  If  I  kenned  the  fool  I'd  bash  him." 

"  You're  right,  Donald,"  commended  MacKillop. 
"  There's  one  man  in  lona  that  would  just  like  to  see  a 
split  in  the  church.  Perhaps  you  know  who  I  mean  ?  " 

"  No,  I  don't." 

"  Well,  who  would  have  an  object  in  throwin'  the  blame 
of  the  Minister's  goin'  on  the  congregation  ?  " 

To  their  credit  no  one  took  up  the  insinuation. 

"  A  man  doesn't  leave  his  home  because  of  trouble  in 
his  business,  often ;  it's  generally  because  there's  something 
wrong  in  the  home,"  continued  MacKillop  significantly. 
"  As  Sweeny  said,  that  detective  knows  something  behind 
the  scenes.  Now,  who's  been  hintin'  at  this  same  thing 
that's  in  the  paper  that  some  of  the  congregation  was  against 
Minister  Munro  and  wanted  to  get  rid  of  him;  and  who 
was  like  to  make  trouble  in  the  Minister's  family?  You  all 
know  who  I  mean." 

As  though  the  speaker's  strong  allusion  had  conjured  up 
the  embodied  principal,  Malcolm  Bain  stood  before  their 
astonished  eyes.  His  tall  figure  loomed  gigantically  above 
the  sitters,  his  square  rugged  face  was  like  a  bronze  mask 
— it  was  terrifying  in  its  power  of  control,  for  he  must 
have  known  that  it  was  he  whom  MacKillop  meant. 

Watson  shoved  the  paper  nervously  in  his  pocket.  There 
was  a  minute's  silence,  apprehensive,  trying  to  the  nerves. 
And  all  the  time  Bain's  eyes  were  fastened  enigmatically 
upon  the  dark,  dissipated  face  of  MacKillop. 

"  You  were  saying,  MacKillop,  that  some  one  was  mak- 
ing trouble  in  the  church — were  you  meaning  me?  " 

94 


The  Lone  Furrow 


"  I  mentioned  no  names." 

"  You  ought  to.  A  slander  is  worse  if  the  slanderer  is 
too  cowardly  to  give  the  other  man  a  chance  to  defend 
himself.  If  you  were  meaning  me  I'm  just  sorry  for  you, 
for  though  I  don't  like  to  mention  it,  I've  helped  you  many 
a  time.  And  I'm  not  trying  to  split  the  Church — I'm  trying 
to  keep  it  together.  You  did  slander  a  man  and  mention 
his  name,  but  that's  just  as  bad,  for  he's  not  here  to 
defend  himself.  And  he  helped  you,  too.  He  picked 
you  out  of  the  gutter  and  tried  to  make  a  man  of  you 
— and  you  hated  him  for  it.  I'm  meaning  Minister 
Munro.  But  worse  than  all  this,  you  hinted  slander  at 
a  good  woman — as  good  as  God  ever  put  the  breath  of 
life  in." 

As  he  said  this,  Malcolm  walked  to  the  back  door  of 
the  store  and  opened  it. 

MacKillop  drew  a  breath  of  relief;  he  thought  Bain 
was  leaving.  But  Malcolm  came  back  to  the  stove  and  con- 
tinued :  "  Ye're  not  fit  to  be  sitting  here  with  gentlemen. 
Gossip's  one  thing,  but  slander's  another;  and  slandering  a 
woman  should  be  punished.  So  now  I'm  going  to  put  you 
out  among  the  pigs  in  the  back  yard — your  own  kind,  you 
can  fraternize  with  them." 

Bain  swung  his  long  arm  with  wonderful  rapidity  and 
seized  MacKillop  by  the  collar.  The  latter  was  a  strong 
man,  too,  with  a  reputation  for  barroom  fighting.  As  he 
struck  at  Bain  he  was  twisted  sidewise,  and  another  hand 
that  was  like  a  bear's  paw  seized  him  by  the  roomy  part 
of  his  breeches;  he  was  lifted  to  his  toes,  propelled  swiftly 
through  the  door,  down  three  steps,  then  lifted  bodily,  and 
canted  over  the  low  fence  of  a  pig  pen. 

95 


The  Lone   Furrow 


MacKillop  fell  sprawling  among  the  porkers,  the  mire 
smothering  his  curses. 

Malcolm  Bain  came  into  the  store,  closing  the  door  be- 
hind him,  saying:  "  Friends,  now  that  yon  liar  has  gone,  I 
just  want  to  say  that  as  we  call  ourselves  men  it's  put 
to  us  to  protect  the  Church  and  the  name  of  our  Minister, 
who  was  a  good  man,  and  the  woman  who  has  now  come  by 
sorrow  enough.  I  think  I'll  be  going.  Good  night,  every- 
body." 

"  Say,  b'ys,"  ejaculated  Sweeny,  when  the  door  had 
closed  behind  Bain,  "  that  was  as  well  done  as  ever  I  see 
in  me  life.  That's  what  they  call  '  buffaloin' '  a  man  out 
west." 

"  In  college  we  called  it  the  grand  bounce,"  commented 
MacFarlane. 

"  Well,"  said  Storekeeper  Reid,  coming  from  behind  the 
counter,  "  it  served  MacKillop  right.  A  man  has  no  busi- 
ness to  drag  a  woman's  name  into  any  discussion.  There's 
been  too  much  talk  over  this  church  business  anyway." 

"  Hivins!  but  that  was  a  surprise  party  to  MacKillop," 
cried  Sweeny  enthusiastically.  "  Say,  b'ys,  when  Bain 
grabbed  Archie  it  just  put  me  in  mind  of  what  happened  to 
Bert  Mullen  yisterday  up  on  the  farm.  You  know  what 
Bert's  like.  Well,  we  was  comin'  up  from  the  bush,  me 
an'  Bert,  an'  just  as  we  rounds  the  drive  shed  there  was  a 
two-year-old  mooly  heifer  sound  asleep  standin'  up  in  the 
shade.  Says  Bert,  '  Watch  me  give  the  mooley  a  surprise, 
Dick.'  Say,  b'ys,  he  just  walked  up  to  her,  cunnin'  like, 
as  though  he  was  goin'  to  steal  a  bag  of  oats.  When  he 
gets  close  he  hauls  off  with  his  big  fist  an'  gives  her  wan 
in  the  ribs.  Say,  b'ys,  I  never  see  anythin'  so  quick  in  me 

96 


The  Lone  Furrow 


life.  I  guess  the  ould  heifer'd  been  dreamin'.  She  whips 
round,  rippin'  a  bellow  out  of  her  that'd  put  yer  hair  on 
end,  an'  ketches  Bert  in  the  ribs  with  her  bunty  head  that 
was  like  an  iron  pot,  an'  lands  him  on  his  back  in  a  mud 
puddle  a  foot  deep.  Hivins!  I  rolls  on  the  ground  yellin' — 
S'help  me  God!  if  Bert'd  been  killed  I  couldn't  a'  helped 
it.  When  Mullen  come  out  o'  the  mud  hole  he  rips  an 
oath  outen  him  an'  says,  '  Dick,  don't  never  strike  a  sleepin' 
cow.'  '  I  won't,'  says  I.  '  Neither  will  I  again,'  says  he." 

"  I  wonder  that  Archie  didn't  come  back  at  Bain  when 
he  dim'  out  of  the  pig  sty,"  remarked  MacFarlane. 

"  I'm  thinkin'  he  had  needs  to  go  home  to  dress  first," 
suggested  MacKay.  "And  yon's  where  I'm  going,  too;  I'm 
awa'  home.  Who's  going  my  way  ?  " 

"  Archie'll  play  Malcolm  a  dirty  trick  yet  for  to-night's 
work,  mark  my  words,  men,"  Watson  added.  "  He's  got 
an  Indian  streak  in  him,  has  Archie.  I  don't  say  there's 
any  truth  in  it,  but  he's  got  the  face  of  an  Indian,  and 
he's  as  mean  as  any  redskin." 


97 


CHAPTER   VII 

(HE  day  after  the  affair  at  the  grocery,  Mal- 
colm Bain  came  to  the  Hedge,  his  ostensible 
errand  flowers  for  the  Memsahib. 

"  It's  the  safest  place  to  carry  them,"  he 
said,  as  he  carefully  removed  his  stiff  black 
hat,  and  brought  forth  a  bunch  of  great  cat-faced  pansies. 

"  I  brought  them  for  the  good  wife,  Doctor.  She  was 
saying  she  had  no  luck  with  her  pansies  this  year,  and  over 
at  my  place  they  just  grow  like  weeds."  He  added,  apolo- 
getically, lest  I  should  make  too  much  of  the  obligation, 
"  They  don't  come  to  much  unless  they're  thinned  out,  and 
I  dislike  throwing  them  away.  We're  all  too  prone  to 
hoard  the  pennies  when  we  have  more  than  enough  of  them 
and  trample  under  foot  the  beautiful  things  the  Creator  has 
taken  so  much  trouble  to  please  us  with.  A  love  for  the 
beautiful  and  depravity  seldom  home  in  the  same  man." 

"  Seldom,"  I  concurred.  "  In  fact,  any  love  possessed 
by  a  man  must  keep  him  in  the  better  way." 

"  Yes,  Doctor,  many  wise  men  have  left  us  deathless 
passages  preaching  the  beautiful.  '  Wee  modest  crimson- 
tipped  fleu'r.'  Think  of  the  poet's  heart  with  his  lament 
over  crushing  its  bonnie  stem.  The  whole  wide  expanse 

98 


The  Lone  Furrow 


of  human  sympathy  laid  bare  to  our  sight  by  the  picture 
of  a  tiny  flower.  But  speaking  of  the  seeing  eye,  Doctor — " 
a  change  in  Malcolm's  voice,  a  harder  ring  in  it,  told  me 
that  he  had  suddenly  locked  up  the  things  of  beauty — "  did 
you  notice  in  the  paper  about  an  unknown  man  being  found 
in  the  Niagara,  at  Queenstown?  Well,  it  gave  me  a  bad 
start,  but  it  wasn't  Minister.  And,  Cameron,  speaking  of 
the  papers,  do  you  take  the  Times?" 

"No;  the  News." 

"  Well,  keep  an  eye  for  yesterday's  Times — don't  let 
it  come  in.  That  daft  junior  smeared  a  page  of  clean  paper 
with  ooze,  and  it's  just  fair  criminal.  What  makes  it  worse, 
the  idiot  got  a  smattering  of  truth  into  it.  Aye,  the  truth 
used  as  a  plaything,  or  for  evil  purpose,  is  sometimes  worse 
than  a  lie." 

"  I'll  take  care  that  Jean  doesn't  see  it." 

"  There's  another  thing  you  might  keep  an  eye  to.  Over 
this  same  matter  there  was  an  unfortunate  discussion  at 
the  store  last  night.  The  usual  lot  were  there — you  know 
them." 

"  Yes,  I  heard  all  about  it,  Malcolm." 

Bain  started ;  a  shamed  look  came  into  his  face.  *'  How 
did  you  come  to  know  of  it,  Doctor?  You  weren't  there." 

"  No;  but  I  had  it  all  from  one  who  was.  And  you 
did  just  right.  The  Church  and  Jean  and  myself  are  all 
very  much  obliged  to  you." 

"  I'm  glad  of  that,"  Malcolm  answered  simply ;  "  I  fair 
lost  my  temper,  I  fear.  But  a  village  that  gives  way  to 
idle  gossip  is  in  a  far  worse  state  than  if  it  held  fighting 
tournaments  every  day  in  the  park.  Backbiting  is  worse 
than  black  eyes — it  leaves  nastier  scars;  scars  on  men's 

99 


The  Lone  Furrow 


souls.  The  ruction  at  the  store  may  check  the  men's  talk 
a  bit,  but  you  can't  stop  the  wag  of  women's  tongues;  it's 
as  difficult  to  keep  them  out  of  scandal  mischief  as  geese 
from  young  grain  fields.  They're  the  same — a  fence'll  not 
hold  them.  If  you'll  speak  to  Mrs.  Cameron  she'll  warn 
off  the  old  wife  gossips  when  they  call." 

"  I'll  do  it,  Bain,  though  I  think  she  would  have  been 
before  either  of  us  in  that." 

"  Will  it  be  too  great  a  favor  if  I  ask  you  to  give 
the  supply  minister  a  bite  of  dinner  to-morrow.  I've  ar- 
ranged for  Dr.  MacLean  from  York  to  take  the  service. 
He's  of  Knox  and  has  influence,  you  see." 

"  I  understand.     I'll  be  glad  to  have  him  with  us." 

"  He'll  be  meeting  Mrs.  Munro  and  it'll  not  do  harm 
either  side.  I  don't  want  the  other  party  to  get  hold  of 
him.  He'll  be  stopping  with  me,  but  my  bachelor  dinner 
would  be  poor  cheer  for  him." 

"You'll  come  to  dinner,  too,  Malcolm?" 

"No,  thank  you;  I've  got  to  be  home.  It's  a  lovely 
day,  isn't  it,"  he  added,  which  I  knew  meant  that  his  mis- 
sion was  ended. 

"  It's  very  hot,"  I  objected. 

"  True,  it  is  a  bit  warmish,  but  the  heat'll  harden  un 
the  wheat  berry;  aye,  and  we'll  have  three  days  of  it.  The 
wind  blew  from  the  southwest  last  rright  till  twelve  and 
this  morning  the  barometer  rose  a  point.  Three  days  of 
this  dry  heat'll  make  the  wheat  grade  Ai ;  it'll  put  five 
cents  a  bushel  on,  at  least.  The  farmers  have  much  to  be 
thankful  for  in  these  parts.  Well,  I'll  be  going.  I'll  just 
bring  Dr.  MacLean  over  after  service.  Perhaps  you'll  be 
at  church  yourself." 

IOO 


Bain  fumbled  a  little  over  closing  the  gate,  looked 
thoughtfully  up  the  street,  and  then  critically  at  the  sky. 
I  knew  there  was  something  still  on  his  mind,  but  I  couldn't 
help  him  out  with  a  lead. 

"  How  is  Jean  bearing  up  through  it  all  ?  "  he  suddenly 
asked. 

"  With  the  highest  type  of  bravery,  silently,"  I  answered ; 
"  perhaps  her  suffering  is  too  acute  for  words,  it  may  be 
that." 

"  Just  tell  her  we'll  find  him.  Good  day  to  you,  Cam- 
eron." 

Bain's  advice  appeared  to  me  to  be  unwise.  Jean's 
character  was  too  strong,  or  perhaps  too  deeply  grounded 
in  simple  faith,  to  need  the  bolstering  up  of  problematical 
premises;  but  his  words  revealed  exactly  Bain's  position,  his 
point  of  view. 

There  was  no  doubt  that  he  was  deeply  in  love  with 
Jean;  also  that  he  had  glorified  his  passion  till  it  was  like 
the  love  of  a  brother,  holy  in  its  unselfishness,  in  the  ab- 
solute absence  of  physical  influence.  It  was  like  some  pre- 
cious metal,  gold  incinerated  to  purity.  Malcolm's  powerful 
frame,  his  almost  dour  Scotch  face,  the  massive  head  so 
stolidly  fixed  on  heavy  shoulders,  suggested  so  little  a 
tabernacle  in  which  homed  this  beautiful  spirit  of  chival- 
rous love.  The  magnetism  of  his  strong  nature  always  re- 
mained with  me  after  he  had  gone  and  now  I  continued 
stroking  the  muscles,  mental  and  physical,  of  the  idol. 
A  fine  nature,  Bain's,  I  called  from  one  side  of  my 
mind  to  the  other;  intensely  human,  thoughtful  beyond 
count,  yet  liable  to  misjudgment  through  indifference  to 
diplomacy. 

101 


The  Lone  Furrow 


I  threw  off  the  alluring  spell  of  character  analysis  by 
tossing  my  voice  up  the  stairway: 

"Allis!  are  you  there,  Memsahib?  Doctor  MacLean 
is  to  have  dinner  with  us  to-morrow,"  I  announced,  as  her 
head  appeared  over  the  upper  banister;  "he's  the  Supply." 

"  What !— the  '  Dear  Old  Gentleman  '  !     I'm  so  glad !  " 

This  simple  pleasure  brought  her  lightly  downstairs.  We 
had  grown  into  the  habit  of  short-range  communication 
since  the  advent  of  Jean;  far-carrying  voices  might  cause 
a  twinge  of  painful  remembrance. 

"  Doctor  MacLean,  of  all  men,  will  be  most  welcome," 
Memsahib  said,  now  at  my  shoulder;  "he's  just  the  sweet- 
est Christian  that  ever  breathed.  That's  why  he's  the  '  Dear 
Old  Gentleman  '  to  everyone.  If  anybody  can  give  Jean 
spiritual  solace,  he  can.  It's  Malcolm's  arranging,  isn't  it, 
husband?" 

"  Yes." 

"  I  knew  it." 

Then  I  thought  of  Bain's  flower  tribute,  forgotten,  in 
my  hand. 

"  And  he  brought  these  pansies — for  you  he  said." 

"  Oh !  the  duplicity,  the  delicacy  of  that  huge  creature ! 
they're  for  Jean — from  me,  of  course;  I'll  give  them  to  her." 


IO2 


CHAPTER   VIII 

HAT  was  It  this  Sabbath  morning — why  did 
the  Hedge  atmosphere  vibrate  with  intense 
currents? 

Scarce  eye-open,  I  was  hurried  into  active 
consciousness — to  the  essay  of  recalcitrant  stiff- 
necked  linen.  But  first  the  decorous  shave ;  haste  was  written 
large  upon  the  usually  dawdling  day  of  rest.  The  "  Dear 
Old  Gentleman  "  had  prematurely  invaded  my  household  in 
spirit — esoterically  projected  by  his  fame. 

Gracious!  sleep  had  obliterated  his  immaculate  excellence 
from  my  mind.  But  the  Memsahib  held  her  Aladdin  lamp 
to  my  eyes,  and  I  saw  as  she  saw.  Indeed,  I  was  .to  attend 
service!  Unuttered  died  my  objection,  and  I  donned  black 
and  linen  as  blithely  as  though  the  churchgoing  had  been 
my  own  intent. 

Little  feet  patfered  from  room  to  room — to  the  bath- 
room, where  five  pairs  of  shoes  glistened  in  ebony  blackness, 
waiting  to  be  transferred  to  their  proper  hiding  beneath  pews. 
White  dresses  crackled  and  rustled  as  little  figures  brushed 
through  doorways,  or  galloped  upstairs  and  downstairs. 

The  Hedge  would  contribute  royally  to  the  Dear  Old 
Gentleman's  convening  that  Sabbath. 

103 


The  Lone   Furrow 


At  last  we  filled  the  hall  and  poured  out  to  the  walk. 
Ungraciously  I  whispered  to  Doo-doo,  "  Isn't  Mother  like 
the  Plymouth  Rock  hen  with  her  chicks  ?  " 

"Oh,  Father!"  and  Doo-doo's  reproof  gurgled  drown- 
ingly  in  bubbling  waters  of  laughter. 

The  street  was  fogged  with  the  dust  of  farm  vehicles. 
Doctor  MacLean's  name  was  a  shibboleth  to  test  even  the 
reluctance  of  an  agnostic.  The  old  kirk  swallowed  up  a 
stream  of  humanity  till  I  wondered  where  they  would  all 
find  sittings. 

The  Memsahib  had  used  as  a  whip  to  my  sluggish  zeal 
the  promise  of  a  fine  sermon ;  and  when  the  simple,  gentle- 
faced  minister  took  us  all  to  his  heart  in  the  pulpit,  and 
reached  us  closer  to  God,  I  fell  to  wondering  wherein  lay  the 
strange  alchemy  that,  dispensing  with  eloquent  rhetoric,  suf- 
fused the  temple  with  the  whispering  spirit  of  Christ.  It  was 
all  about  Christ  and  Toleration — thoughts  of  such  boundless 
width  that  we  floated  in  a  sea  of  communism.  No  making 
a  combative  stand  upon  points  of  debatable  theology;  our 
questioning  mentality  rested  in  Nirvana;  our  hearts  softened 
and  dominated  our  selfish  selfism,  until,  casting  a  truant 
eye  about,  I  saw  all  the  rugged  Celtic  faces  soft,  like  the 
faces  of  the  shepherds  in  the  memorial  window.  It  was 
the  window,  perhaps,  with  its  subduing  light,  I  reasoned. 
Certainly  it  was  the  face  of  the  Madonna  that  stabbed 
me  with  a  poignant  regret  that  Jean  sat  yonder  under 
the  lilac  hedge,  alone,  save  for  the  companionship  of  her 
sorrow. 

Presently  I  was  transfixed  by  words.  Before,  it  had  been 
all  a  subtle  spirit  of  Christian  sincerity.  Ah !  that  was  it — 
that  was  the  compelling  force,  sincerity.  The  Minister  was 

104 


The  Lone  Furrow 


asking  of  the  congregation  a  continuance  in  unity,  a  mass- 
ing of  Christlike  endeavor,  when,  like  a  line  from  an  an- 
them, came,  in  his  gentle  voice:  "  I  would  ask  of  you  all 
as  Christians  a  cherishing  love  for  our  sister  of  the  lone 
furrow — the  wife  of  your  pastor." 

The  exquisite  beauty  of  this  destroyed  me  as  a  reason- 
able sitter  in  a  pew.  My  brain  surged  with  a  strange 
turmoil  of  disjointed  thoughts — words  without  correlative 
connecting  links. 

It  was  something  nebulous — that  God,  and  simplicity, 
and  inspiration  and  beauty  of  thought  were  one  and  the 
same  thing.  These  words  pushed  each  other  back  and  forth 
until  my  head  throbbed;  I  could  have  grasped  the  little 
thin-haired  old  man  of  the  pulpit  in  my  arms,  and  carried 
him  in  joy  to  some  high  throne  that  was  a  seat  of  the 
mighty. 

But  presently  Memsahib's  hand  was  on  my  arm — I  am 
afraid  she  thought  I  was  asleep — and  she  was  drawing  me 
to  a  knowledge  of  observances  that,  with  the  words  of 
beauty  in  my  mind,  meant  little. 

We  were  soon  in  the  open.  I  had  the  Doctor  tucked 
under  my  arm — I  could  love  him  now  without  pretense — 
and  we  were  ebb-tiding  back  to  the  Hedge.  Not,  however, 
until  Dr.  MacLean  had  held  levee  on  the  greensward  plat- 
form, that  like  a  rich  woof  of  velvet  carpeted  the  earth 
beneath  our  tread,  even  enfolding  with  its  warmth  the  cold 
stone  feet  of  the  kirk. 

Calvinistic  faces,  moulded  hard  by  their  owners'  lives  so 

indissolubly  wedded  to  toil,  carrying  the  toil-endeavor  even 

into   their   religion,   lost   much   of   their   austerity   as   they 

grouped  about  the  little  gray  preacher.    Indeed,  very  proudly 

8  105 


The  Lone  Furrow 


I  marched  off  with  our  guest,  followed  by  looks  of  par- 
donable envy. 

And  the  Doctor,  pulsating  with  human  feeling,  left  his 
mantle  of  theology  flung  against  the  kirk  walls — figuratively, 
of  course — and  said:  "My,  my!  Dear  me,  Doctor  Cam- 
eron, what  a  lovely  thing  to  have  all  these  little  girls.  My, 
my!  Look  at  the  sunlight  on  their  white  dresses;  just  a 
sweet  picture.  If  God  had  nothing  else  to  give  us  but 
such  gifts  we  ought  to  think  well  of  Him,  indeed  we  should." 

That  wasn't  theology — not  at  all;  it  was  just  the  joyous 
boy's  mind  in  the  silver-haired  dome. 

I  was  thinking  that  the  Scots  would  indeed  be  stiff  of 
neck  if  they  did  not  bear  patiently  the  yoke  of  casual  min- 
isters for  a  little,  after  listening  to  the  Doctor's  words 
impregnate  with  resignation  to  the  will  of  God. 

As  we  sat  behind  the  lilacs  in  the  little  interval  between 
service  and  dinner,  I  found  myself  constantly  gazing  with 
puzzled  wonderment  upon  this  quaint  old-fashioned  man 
who  had  thrilled  me  with  his  gentle  sincerity.  Sitting  there, 
rocking  nervously  in  a  low  chair,  his  body  had  shrunken 
from  the  commanding  aspect  carried  in  the  pulpit.  There, 
also,  the  face  had  been  luminous  with  magnetic  power;  be- 
hind him  the  choir  had  appeared  just  blotches  of  color 
against  the  somber-toned  organ;  now  the  face  was  plain, 
perhaps  sweet  in  its  symmetry  of  plainness.  The  eyes  car- 
ried no  fire,  just  trusting  content;  looking  at  me  they  seemed 
to  say:  "We  both,  not  meaning  any  evil,  say  this  or  think 
that."  Gazing  into  them  I  noticed  there  was  a  feeling  of 
mutual  confidence.  That  he  was  fussy  did  not  irritate  in 
the  least. 

Then  there  was  the  dinner.  And,  lo!  suddenly,  as  if  by 
106 


The  Lone  Furrow 


chance,  the  Doctor,  the  Dear  Old  Gentleman,  was  talk- 
ing of  my  book — had  read  it.  Indeed,  he  was  a  wonderful 
little  man ! 

And  he  came  over  a  part  that  I  had  toiled  at  to  the 
extent  that  I  had  well-nigh  buried  the  real  issue,  for  none 
of  the  critics  had  noticed  it  at  all.  At  the  lower  end  of 
the  table  I  could  see  the  Memsahib's  eyes  luminous  in  ap- 
preciation of  his  words;  I  feared  she  would  rise  and  put 
her  arms  around  his  neck. 

But  after  dinner  she  exploded  a  bomb  under  my  castle 
of  conceit,  knocking  at  least  a  turret  into  mortar. 

"  Wasn't  it  thoughtful  of  Dr.  MacLean,"  she  said,  "  to 
keep  the  talk  going  about  your  book,  and  those  curious  in- 
fidels in  China,  so  that  there'd  be  nothing  said  of  the  church 
here  to  worry  Jean." 

"  I  thought  he  was  really  interested  in  my  story  of  the 
Minister  among  the  Indians,"  I  answered  somewhat  stiffly — 
"  he  must  have  been,  to  have  read  it  before  he  knew  us — 
before  he  came  out  here." 

"  Of  course  he  is  interested — everybody  is;  I  mean  every- 
body who  has  read  the  book,"  she  answered. 

"  Dear  me,  how  lovely!  this  simple  life — yes,  yes!  "  thus 
Dr.  MacLean  expressed  his  boyish  satisfaction,  as  we  trav- 
eled from  the  hot  interior  to  the  land  dominated  by  the 
hammock. 

Three  soft  maples  standing  on  guard  up  and  down  their 
beat  of  my  frontage  fought  back  the  hot  slanting  rays  of 
the  afternoon  sun,  and  with  the  screen  of  their  broad  leaves 
veiled  the  dust  that  swirled  up  from  the  roadbed  and  sought 
to  leap  our  hedge.  In  barter  for  the  sunlight  they  threw 
across  the  lawn  a  cool  shade. 

107 


The  Lone  Furrow 


We  almost  laid  hands  upon  our  guest  to  get  him  in 
the  hammock.  "  The  ladies — dear  me,  the  ladies,  by  all 
means;  Mrs.  Munro,  or  you,  Mrs.  Cameron — a  little  rest." 
But  finally  he  yielded. 

"  You  were  asking  about  the  hardships  in  China,  Doctor 
Cameron,"  he  began. 

I  hadn't  asked;  but  that  was  a  mere  bagatelle,  so  I 
nodded  as  encouragement  to  the  Reverend's  story. 

"  One  of  our  missionaries,"  he  continued,  "  the  Reverend 
Philpot,  was  lost  for — dear  me,  how  long  was  it? — three, 
five,  yes,  six  months.  Of  course,  we  had  given  him  up  for 
dead,  sorrowed  for  him  greatly — he  was  a  most  conscien- 
tious worker;  we  had  dispatched  a  missionary  to  take  his 
place,  when  one  day  I  received  a  cablegram  that  he  had 
been  found,  restored  to  us  by  the  grace  of  God.  I  haven't 
the  particulars  yet,  it  was  quite  lately,  and  we  don't  know 
whether  he  got  lost,  or  wandered  away,  or  was  captured 
by  the  Boxers  and  held  for  ransom." 

"  It  must  have  been  a  relief  to  you,"  I  said. 

"  Indeed,  it  was — a  blessed  relief.  It  shows  we  should 
never  lose  hope — just  live  in  faith  until — well,  until  all  hope 
is  gone.  Of  course,  all  hope  is  never  gone,  because  at  best 
it  is  only  change,  a  happy  change." 

What  a  deep  little  old  man  it  is,  I  thought,  as  I  began 
to  realize  the  sentiment  that  had  prompted  him  to  say,  "  You 
were  asking  of  China." 

"  Doctor,"  put  in  Malcolm  Bain  suddenly,  who  with 
the  Agnostic,  had  joined  our  little  party,  "  do  you  remem- 
ber that  you  are  to  have  tea  with  Mrs.  MacFarlane?" 

"  Dear  me,  dear  me !  thank  you,  Mr.  Bain.  I  had  for- 
gotten it.  Dreadful,  inexcusable!  I  must  go." 

108 


The  Lone  Furrow 


Such  a  bustling  departure  the  Doctor  had,  fearing  he 
would  not  be  in  time.  It  was  not  yet  five,  but  the  Dear 
Old  Gentleman  quite  forgot  to  look  at  his  watch,  accept- 
ing Bain's  suggestion  that  he  would  be  late. 

"A  Disciple  of  Christ,"  the  Agnostic  said  with  abrupt 
brevity,  watching  the  quaint  figure  in  black  that  seemed 
top-heavy  beneath  the  tall  silk  hat.  "  Faith  like  his  is 
worth  having." 

"  But  it's  very  common  here,"  declared  Bain.  "  I  mean 
the  belief.  I'm  not  saying  that  its  obligations  are  carried 
out  as  conscientiously  as  in  Dr.  MacLean's  case.  You  don't 
go  to  the  kirk,  at  least  you  haven't  for  some  time,  or  you'd 
see  sitting  up  there  in  the  front  pews — let  me  see,  well, 
a  dozen  gray-haired  men,  with  stooped  shoulders,  that  have 
worked  hard  for  fifty,  or  sixty,  aye,  even  seventy  years 
some  of  them,  and  the  joy  of  life  has  pretty  well  leaked 
out  toward  the  end  of  all  those  years.  So  if  it  weren't  for 
this  religion — My  God,  man!  it  would  be  awful  to  think 
of  the  desolation,  wouldn't  it?  I've  looked  in  their  faces 
many  times — they're  honest  faces  as  the  world  goes — and 
there's  no  trace  of  despair;  they're  as  content  as  we  are. 
Man,  do  you  mean  to  say  there's  nothing  in  all  that?  " 

"  Bain,  you're  as  honest  in  your  convictions  as  the  good 
Doctor  who  has  just  left  us.  I  like  to  argue  this  question 
with  men  I  suspect  don't  believe  what  they  preach.  Over 
the  way,"  and  the  Agnostic  nodded  toward  the  church, 
"  there'll  be  men  to-night  with  their  heads  bowed  to  the 
prayer,  and  in  their  hearts  an  evil  hope  that  Munro,  who 
was  as  good  a  Christian  as  the  Doctor,  may  never  come 
back — and  just  because  he  let  them  see  that  they  were 
hypocrites.  They  would  deceive  themselves  if  they  were 

109 


The  Lone  Furrow 


left  alone,  but  he  wouldn't  leave  them  alone,  he  was  trying 
to  save  them  from  themselves." 

I  had  a  strong  suspicion  that  the  Agnostic  was  still  trying 
to  convince  himself,  unsuccessfully,  that  the  faith  he  had 
imbibed  at  his  mother's  knee,  that  had  been  his  God-fearing 
ancestors'  before  him,  was  a  chimerical  nothing.  Apart  from 
this  divergence,  he  was  altogether  a  lovable  man;  as  his 
criticism  of  the  Doctor  indicated,  of  a  fair-minded  disposi- 
tion. But,  unfortunately,  he  was  tenacious  of  argument. 
This  I  think  was  an  exemplification  of  the  statement  "  Satan 
finds  some  mischief  still  for  idle  hands  to  do." 

He  was  a  retired  official,  having  seen  service  in  India. 
Voluble  enough  over  some  things,  he  was  rather  reticent 
about  his  own  early  life.  This  I  put  down  to  the  English 
insular  diffidence  toward  discussing  personal  affairs.  I  was 
certain  he  could  have  nothing  to  hide,  nothing  prejudicial. 
Indeed,  perhaps,  he  was  not  even  English  born;  his  tongue 
was  cosmopolitan  to  a  degree,  that  is  an  English-tongued 
Cosmopolii.  His  idioms  had  a  range  from  Oxford  to  Cal- 
cutta, loitering  on  the  return  journey  in  New  York,  with 
a  large  sweep  of  Canada. 

It  was  difficult  to  place  him  by  his  speech,  or  accent,  or 
lack  of  it.  Many  would  have  thought  him  a  Canadian; 
indeed,  he  may  have  been  drafted  from  the  Kingston  Military 
School  to  the  British  service,  or,  born  in  Canada,  dribbled 
through  the  schools  in  England  and  turned  out  a  griffin 
with  a  billet  in  India. 

He  had  acquired  a  vast  fund  of  information  upon  gen- 
eral topics,  and  drew  upon  his  store  at  times  for  most 
convincing  similes,  or  examples.  Why  he  had  come  to 
our  village  probably  to  spend  the  remainder  of  his  days  was 

110 


The  Lone  Furrow 


not  clear  to  me.  Perhaps  he  had  some  socialistic  antagonism 
to  the  British  Raj ;  perhaps  it  had  not  used  him  quite  fairly 
in  the  way  of  promotion. 

I  conjectured  that  his  agnosticism — it  was  only  that  be- 
cause of  a  more  relative  word — was  more  or  less  a  form 
of  mind  exercise,  like  playing  solitaire.  Had  he  retired  to 
England  he  would  have  had  his  whist  at  the  Club — de- 
lightful solace  of  the  superannuated — a  frock-coat  stroll  in 
Hyde  Park  and  Piccadilly;  and  that  recurrent  theme  for 
desultory  conversation — the  fogs. 

Perhaps  he  had  simply  come  to  Canada  to  find  a  home 
where  his  slender  stipend — he  never  sought  to  conceal  the 
fact  that  his  means  were  limited — would  be  sufficient  for 
a  good  healthy  life,  good  food,  books,  and  the  smell  of  the 
fields. 

lona,  seen  from  the  railway  station,  its  homes  nestling 
like  gray-  and  red-wooled  sheep  in  the  valley  and  up 
the  undulating  hills,  was  very  like  an  English  hamlet,  and 
perhaps  the  Agnostic  had  thus  discovered  it  from  the  win- 
dow of  a  train.  At  any  rate,  here  he  was,  and  I,  for  one, 
was  pleased  to  have  him  as  a  neighbor. 

Possibly  even  it  were  better  for  him  to  mentalize  over 
these  problems  of  creation,  and  futurity,  and  the  present 
well-being  of  humanity  than  to  fritter  away  the  balance 
of  his  time  with  whist  and  frock  coats  and  execration  of 
the  fogs.  If  he  liked  the  simple  it  was  certainly  good  for 
him. 

I  congratulated  myself  that  the  mental  storm  had  passed 
when  the  Major  resumed :  "  From  where  I  sit  I  can  count 
four  church  spires,  which  means  four  bodies  of  sane  people 
set  against  each  other  in  the  matter  of  their  common  good. 

Ill 


The  Lone  Furrow 


And  the  same  thing  subdivisionally  exists  beneath  each  spire. 
Across  the  way  most  uncharitable  stories  are  going  the  rounds 
to  account  for  Munro's  disappearance." 

"  Don't  listen  to  them,  man,  they're  quite  untrue,"  said 
Malcolm. 

"  Where  was  Munro  in  the  ministry  before  he  came  to 
lona,  Bain  ?  Have  you  thought  to  inquire  in  that  parish ; 
he  might  have  gone  back  there  for  a  rest.  If  he  were  suf- 
fering from  aberration  brought  on  by  overwork  and  de- 
spondency he  might  drift  back  there  by  a  sort  of  instinct." 

"  It  would  be  a  long  journey,  Major — India." 

"  Was  he  there — as  a  missionary?  " 

"Aye;  and  a  good  one,  too;  a  martyr  all  but  the  final 
journey  with  the  Silent  Boatman — he  was  stationed  some- 
where in  Central  India." 

"  That's  the  whole  thing  then,"  cried  the  Major  eagerly ; 
"  I'll  wager  a  guinea  he  got  a  touch  of  sun ;  and  once  touched 
always  touched — I  think  something  melts  in  the  gray  mat- 
ter, for  a  man  is  never  the  same  again,  liable  to  go  off  at 
a  tangent  at  any  moment.  By  Jove!  we  had  a  hot  spell 
just  before  he  disappeared.  Now  we  have  got  a  clew.  Their 
devilish  dark  hints  about  other  things  are  all  moonshine; 
Munro  was  a  bit  dotty  owing  to  the  sun." 

"  It  might  be  so,"  Malcolm  admitted  slowly.  "  There 
was  a  famine  in  his  district  the  year  he  came  home,  and 
he  just  slaved  to  save  his  people,  and  sapped  his  constitu- 
tion for  the  benighted." 

"  And  now  his  reputation  is  sapped  by  the  benighted 
here.  I  admit  that  I  wasn't  in  love  with  the  missionaries 
when  I  was  in  India;  some  of  them  were  so  zealous  that 
it  just  kept  the  officials  busy  keeping  things  straight.  A  man 

112 


The  Lone  Furrow 


would  be  taken  from  the  plow  in  America,  rushed  through 
a  superficial  course  in  theology,  and  sent  out  there  inspired 
by  the  idea  that  he  had  ignorant,  crude  savages  to  teach. 
Lord  bless  me!  he  would  go  up  against  men  that  these 
questions  had  been  torturing  for  fifty  generations  back — 
heritage,  you  know — and  they  would  look  upon  the  mis- 
sionary as  crude,  a  novice,  a  false  doctor  who  had  come 
among  them  to  destroy  a  belief,  or  a  faith  of  generations, 
and  then,  when  he  had  shattered  everything  they  had  ever 
believed  in,  destroyed  their  faith,  would  ask  them  to  accept, 
on  his  assertion,  a  new  dogma.  To  my  mind  it's  a  dan- 
gerous thing.  Smash  a  man's  faith  and  it  is  difficult  to 
get  him  to  hold  to  anything  after  that,  new  or  old.  I'rri 
not  saying  that  Brahmanism  or  Buddhism  are  true  gospels; 
in  fact,  they  are  founded  on  wrong  principles,  Brahmanism 
particularly,  for  it  is  grounded  on  fear.  Siva,  the  Destroyer, 
and  his  horrible  consort,  Kali,  are  fearful  embodiments.  The 
religion  of  Christ  is  far  more  potent  to  elevate  humanity. 
But  these  students  of  theology,  the  Brahmans,  were  keen 
analyzers,  dissectors  of  doctrines,  and  they  could  find  in  the 
Christian  religion  with  its  '  eye  for  an  eye,  and  tooth  for  a 
tooth,'  and  the  wrath  of  God,  much  to  liken  to  the  very 
things  the  missionary  denounced.  When  he  innocently 
enough  declaimed  against  the  Hindoo's  reverence  for  the 
cow,  he  attacked  an  ordinance  that  had  been  enacted  in  great 
wisdom.  The  Brahmans  knew  that  and  laughed  at  him. 
In  times  of  extensive  famine — and  famines  were  but  nature's 
way  of  preserving  the  balance  in  earth's  creatures — those 
who  were  dying  of  starvation,  after  they  had  eaten  whatever 
grain  there  was,  would  have  swept  from  the  land  the  cattle. 
Then  when  a  time  of  growth  came,  the  stronger  ones  that 


The  Lone  Furrow 


had  survived  would  have  had  no  means  of  tilling  the  soil. 
It  would  have  been  perpetual  starvation  until  all  were  ex- 
tinct. Nothing  but  deifying  the  cow,  and  the  sacred  bull, 
of  course,  would  have  kept  the  knife  from  their  throats. 
The  fear  of  eternal  punishment  for  this  sacrilege  was  greater 
than  the  fear  of  a  temporary  death.  But  I'm  preaching, 
lecturing;  it's  a  tremendous  subject.  And  ignorance  of  all 
these  things  is  what  blunts  the  sword  of  Jehovah  in  the 
hands  of  inexperienced  babes." 

"  But  Munro  was  a  man  of  wide  knowledge  and  broad," 
contended  Bain. 

"  He  was,"  assented  the  Agnostic.  "  And  perhaps  where 
he  seemed  narrow,  bitter,  nailing  the  sin  of  intemperance 
like  they  nailed  the  thieves  to  the  cross,  may  have  been  due 
to  just  this  very  Eastern  experience,  comparing  the  laxity  in 
regard  to  drink  among  the  church  members  with  the  ab- 
stemious habits  of  the  Mohammedans  and  the  Buddhists. 
I've  traveled  myself  among  the  Beluchis  and  the  Afghans, 
and  they,  as  a  body,  shun  spirits  as  a  Protestant  does  Holy 
Water.  Perhaps  Munro  wished  to  sustain  the  Christian  re- 
ligion on  a  higher  plane  than  these  faiths  we  look  upon  as 
Pagan.  Anyway  he  wore  himself  out  here  over  the  famine 
of  Christ's  manna  as  he  did  in  India,  and  broke  himself 
down." 

"  And  of  more  import  than  the  cause  of  his  going  is 
that  he  has  gone  and  we  have  no  trace  of  him,"  said  Mal- 
colm. 

"  But  I  have  heard  dark  hints  of  foul  play  " ;  the  Ag- 
nostic said  this  with  an  unconscious  lift  to  his  voice,  as 
though  the  remembrance  had  suddenly  flashed  upon  him. 

Before  Malcolm  could  express  his  ridicule  of  such  an 
114 


The  Lone  Furrow 


idle  report,  Robert  Craig's  voice  broke  in  upon  us  from 
almost  at  my  elbow. 

His  boyish  face  peered  at  us  from  over  the  gate,  the  lilacs 
hiding  him  until  he  leaned  forward. 

He  had  heard  the  Agnostic's  words  for  he  said :  "  You 
are  like  three  black  crows  sitting  on  a  tree. — Croak,  croak, 
croak!" 

He  swung  open  the  gate  and  took  my  chair  which  I  had 
vacated  for  a  seat  on  the  bench. 

"  We  were  just  talking  over  plans  for  tracing  Neil," 
Malcolm  explained;  and  I  understood  this  as  a  hint  for 
us  to  eliminate  the  general  discussion  of  Munro  in  Robert's 
presence. 

"  And  just  now  you're  busy  over  some  old  woman's 
yarn  that  he's  been  murdered,  like  the  prince  in  the  fairy 
tale,  eh?" 

"  We're  not  listening  to  such  idle,  foolish  gossip,  boy" 
Malcolm  answered,  most  of  his  reproof  centered  on  the  in- 
flection he  put  upon  the  word  "  boy." 

Then  by  chance  the  Agnostic  startled  me  with  a  simple 
question :  "  Have  you  sent  to  the  papers  a  picture  of  Minister 
Munro?  That's  one  of  the  most  effective  methods  of  finding 
a  lost  man." 

"That's  just  where  we're  hampered  the  most;  there's 
not  a  photograph  of  Minister  to  be  had.  I  was  wanting 
one,  but  Mrs.  Munro  says  her  husband  never  had  one 
taken ;  he  had  a  curious  objection  to  it,"  Bain  answered. 

Hanging  on  Malcolm's  words,  I  was  watching  Robert's 
face,  for  his  curious  conduct  in  the  Manse  study  came  back 
to  me  disquietingly.  I  caught  his  eye  once  in  a  furtive, 
frightened  look ;  I  was  sure  his  face  grew  pale.  Now  is  his 


The  Lone  Furrow 


opportunity,  I  thought;  if  he  does  not  offer  the  photograph 
his  explanation  to  me  that  day  was  all  a  lie.  I  sat  silent, 
waiting.  He  did  not  speak.  I  had  a  chance  to  either  con- 
vict or  clear  him  of  deception  by  referring  to  the  photograph 
he  claimed  to  have  discovered,  but  I  just  thought  of  what 
trouble  a  word  might  lead  to,  and  desisted. 

Besides,  in  my  mind  he  was  already  convicted  of  in- 
explicable deceit.  And  there  was  that  other  terrible,  un- 
explainable  dread  engendered  by  the  remembrance  of  the 
smothering  drug  odor.  It  was  in  my  nostrils  now,  killing 
the  sweet  breath  of  the  flowers;  it  had  drifted  in  with  Rob- 
ert, clinging  to  his  clothes.  It  sickened  me.  I  wanted  to 
sweep  the  Hedge  of  it — of  the  boy — of  the  whole  nauseat- 
ing mystery  of  Munro's  fate. 

I  rose,  saying:  "I'm  sorry,  but  I've  letters  to  write." 

"  By  Jove!  so  have  I,  nearly  forgot,"  declared  the  Major 
rising;  "I  must  be  off.  It's  too  bad  you've  no  picture 
though,  Bain." 

"  I'm  going  in  to  see  Jean  for  a  minute,  Doctor,"  Robert 
said. 

"Just  call  up  to  the  Memsahib,"  I  advised.  Then  I 
traveled  to  the  sidewalk  with  Malcolm  saying:  "  Bain, 
you've  got  this  whole  load  perched  on  your  shoulders  like 
an  old  man  of  the  sea — you  must  give  me  a  chance  to 
help." 

"  I'll  call  on  you  soon  as  there's  need,"  he  answered. 
"  See  yon  hammer-headed  cloud !  That's  sullen  looking ; 
there'll  be  a  storm  to-morrow.  The  Major's  a  fair  type  of 
Christian  if  he'd  only  let  himself  believe  it." 

Left  alone  I  sat  in  retrospect  over  the  discussion  that 
had  just  taken  place.  My  mind  must  have  been  fogged 

116 


The  Lone  Furrow 


with  so  much  of  it;  the  wide  range,  India  and  theology  and 
Brahmanism  and  our  own  mystery. 

All  the  philosophy  of  the  world  seemed  so  utterly  inade- 
quate to  glinting  one  strong  flash  of  light  across  the  dark- 
ened path  of  the  lone  furrow. 

Not  one  of  us  had  the  slightest  clew  to  work  from — 
then  with  an  erratic  jump  my  mind  landed  irritatingly  in 
the  study  at  the  Manse.  Did  Robert  really  know  some- 
thing? If  not,  why  should  I,  unsuspicious  naturally,  attach 
so  much  importance  to  that  drug  smell  and  Robert's  pre- 
varication ? 

The  thing  tortured  me.  I  must  settle  absolutely  the 
matter  of  the  photograph.  I  had  hesitated  to  speak  of  it 
before  others,  but  now —  The  boy's  step  on  the  veranda 
put  a  seal  on  my  determination. 

"  Jean  is  feeling  pretty  blue,"  he  said,  as  I  rose,  block- 
ing his  exit;  "but  there's  no  cause  for  despair.  Munro'll 
come  back  when  he — "  The  boy  stopped  abruptly. 

"  When  he  what  ?  "  I  asked  incisively. 

"  When  he  realizes  what  it  means  deserting  Jean.  He's 
gone  off  in  some  temporary  fit  of  despondency;  he's  a  weak 
man." 

Again  I  felt  the  boy  was  prevaricating ;  that  his  lips  were 
not  uttering  what  was  in  his  heart. 

"  Why  didn't  you  offer  Bain  that  photograph  you  had  ?  " 
I  asked,  looking  straight  into  his  dissipated  eyes.  I  saw  them 
twitch  nervously,  then  narrow  to  defiance.  I  read  in  them  ab- 
solutely that  I  should  get  nothing  from  them  but  perhaps 
another  lie. 

"  Where  is  Neil's  picture?  "  I  asked;  "  we  need  it.  Was 
it  that  you  put  in  your  pocket  ?  " 

117 


The  Lone  Furrow 


"  It  was  something  of  Munro's  and  I  threw  it  in  the 
fire." 

"What  was  it?" 

"  None  of  your  business." 

"  Why  did  you  lie  about  it?  " 

"  Again,  none  of  your  business,  Doctor." 

I  was  staggered.  It  was  something  of  importance  enough 
to  cause  him  to  quarrel  with  me.  He  was  ready  enough  al- 
ways to  quarrel  with  others,  but  with  me  he  had  been 
different. 

"  I'll  speak  to  your  sister  about  it — I'll  ask  her,"  I  said, 
in  a  foolish  threat. 

He  divined  the  weakness  of  my  statement — quick  to 
know  that  I  would  not  execute  this  threat,  and  answered 
sneeringly:  "Jean  has  trouble  enough;  if  you  wish  to  cause 
her  more  it  rests  with  you.  There's  too  much  talk  al- 
ready," he  added,  as  he  swung  the  gate  open ;  "  it's  a  wise 
head  that  preserves  a  still  tongue." 

I  felt  that  he  had  beaten  me.  His  indifference  to  the 
accusation  of  having  lied  showed  me  that  some  stronger  force 
governed  his  actions  than  his  own  susceptibilities.  This 
seemed  to  make  darker  still  the  mystery. 

The  hopelessness  of  everything  gloomed  my  spirits  on 
into  the  evening.  When  the  Memsahib  went  to  churcn  the 
house  became  utterly  desolate.  I  sat  in  my  study  plodding 
on  behind  the  solitary  figure  in  the  lonely  furrow,  watching 
her  in  speechless  sorrow  searching  for  something  that  she 
never  found.  Perhaps,  like  the  princess  in  that  weird  love 
song  of  Afghanistan,  who,  with  her  lantern,  searched  the 
battlefield,  she  would  come  upon  her  lover  slain.  Perhaps 
even  that  would  be  better  than  this  shadow-seeking. 


The  Lone  Furrow 


Rousing  myself,  I  wandered  across  the  hall  and  into  the 
drawing-room.  It  was  dim  with  the  blurring  shadows  of 
approaching  night,  the  last  gray  of  the  dying  light  battled 
back  by  drawn  curtains.  The  crimson-and-gold  window 
across  the  way  would  brighten  this  gloom.  A  majesty  of 
music  welled  up,  cloudlike  from  the  organ,  pealing  the  end 
of  the  service,  as  I  groped  my  way  to  a  window.  Thrusting 
back  its  curtain  my  hand  fell  upon  the  head  of  Jean,  bent 
low  to  the  ledge. 

Jean  must  have  heard  my  step,  for  she  was  less  startled 
than  I;  and  when  she  did  not  raise  her  head  the  thought 
came  to  me  that  she  was  weeping;  I  could  feel  a  tremor. 

"  I'm  sorry — I  didn't  know  you  were  here,"  I  said 
lamely.  "  It's  too  gloomy — come  into  the  study  and  I'll 
read." 

A  sob  answered  me. 

"  Come,"  I  continued,  gently  putting  my  hand  on  her 
arm. 

The  soft  gray  fabric  that  she  always  wore  now  grated 
on  my  fingers  like  crape.  It  was  a  seal  of  despair. 

She  rose  to  my  little  drag  at  her  arm,  saying:  "  I  came 
to  this  quiet  place  to  hide  my  cowardice;  I  should  be  braver." 

"  Not  out  of  yourself,  Jean ;  you  couldn't  be  braver ;  but 
you  must  trust  in  God.  You  know  that  He  will  watch  over 
your  husband,  that  He  will  sustain  you." 

I  think  it  was  the  utter  impossibility  of  putting  my 
thoughts  upon  material  support — some  reasonable  argument 
to  combat  her  despair — that  caused  me  to  so  readily  offer 
spiritual  solace,  for,  inexperienced  in  this,  I  was  lamely  con- 
ventional. Like  many  a  weakling  in  this  field,  I  only  blun- 
dered, for  I  accomplished  something  worse  than  if  I  had 

119 


The  Lone  Furrow 


remained  silently  sympathetic — I  drove  Jean  into  the  most 
inexplicable  revolt.  I  listened  to  a  perfect  torrent  of  re- 
bellious despair;  I  had  unwittingly  thrown  open  the  gates 
of  the  dike,  and  the  pent  waters  of  tried  patience  flooded 
forth.  It  was  only  afterwards  that  I  remembered  Jean's 
earlier  struggle  with  this  same  spirit  of  rebellion. 

"Carry  to  God  what?"  she  asked,  her  voice  cynically 
questioning,  "  a  parched,  dried  desert  of  a  heart,  scorched 
by  nothing  but  trial,  but  starvation  of  everything  that  fat- 
tens the  heart  of  a  human,  and  then  have  God  turn  His 
face  away,  and  be  thrust  back  into  deeper  misery?  I've 
tried  to  be  a  Christian;  I've  read  and  plodded  and  listened 
and  smothered  down  doubts  and  shut  my  eyes  to  the 
hypocrisy  that  sat,  long-visaged,  under  denunciation  from 
the  pulpit,  turning  away  with  the  cheek  of  a  Pharisee  the 
shafts  that  an  inspired  man  leveled  at  their  sins  and  their 
weaknesses." 

Jean  was  trembling  in  her  intensity;  and,  not  answering, 
I  pulled  a  chair,  though  we  were  still  in  the  half  light  of 
the  shadowed  room. 

"  If  ever  a  human  being  tried  to  come  close  to  God  I 
did,"  she  resumed,  "  and  to-night  He  is  farther  from  me 
than  from  some  murderer  waiting  in  his  cell  to  be  hanged. 
What  did  God  do  for  my  father?  Left  to  smother  in  his 
own  weakness — and  never  in  his  heart  was  an  evil  thought 
for  man  or  woman.  And  my  brother — thrice  accursed.  Will 
God  save  him?  Did  not  God  remove  the  one  man  who  had 
dominion  over  Robert's  consuming  passion  for  drink?  " 

"Jean,"  I  pleaded;  but  she  continued  as  though  I  had 
not  spoken: 

"  If  God  ever  had  a  zealous  advocate  on  earth,  it  was 
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The  Lone  Furrow 


my  husband.  He  had  no  thought  but  His  labor;  he  gave 
his  life  for  it,  his  soul." 

"His  soul?"  I  cried  out  of  my  dark  mystification; 
"  Neil's  work  would  save  the  soul  of  a  devil." 

"  You  don't  know ;  I  say  he  gave  more  than  his  body 
to  God's  work.  And  now  if  we  were  to  believe  the  ac- 
cepted interpretation  of  salvation  he  would  be  better  sit- 
ting there  in  a  pew  atoning  for  mean  sins  by  a  formality 
of  church  observances." 

"  You  are  wrong,  Jean,"  I  said  bluntly ;  "  God  knows, 
and  He  rewards  His  faithful  servants." 

My  words  uttered  in  objection  really  had  no  bearing 
on  the  change  that  came  over  Jean.  She  had  exhausted 
herself  with  her  vehemence;  the  torturing  spirit  of  revolt 
had  escaped  in  words.  A  flood  of  tears  welled  up  from 
the  depths  of  her  misery,  and  she  sobbed :  "  My  God !  I'm 
tried  too  sorely.  My  heart  grows  lean  with  the  starvation 
of  hope.  Black,  black! — past,  present,  and  future;  all  a 
pall,  a  cloud  without  light.  I'm  meager  in  my  asking; 
not  even  love,  nothing  but  just  a  ceasing  from  this  long, 
never-ending  trial.  Let  God  give  me  back  my  husband — 
let  God  save  him,  then  I'll  believe  everything." 

"  Jean,  even  if  Neil  be  lost  to  us  he'll  be  saved"  I  con- 
soled. "  Didn't  the  Lord  deliver  over  to  the  tempter  even 
Job's  body  for  affliction  after  all  the  other  trials  had  failed 
to  shake  the  faith  of  the  man  of  Uz — and  didn't  Job  still 
bless  the  name  of  the  Lord?  That's  what  Neil  himself 
would  have  done — is,  no  doubt,  doing." 

"  You  don't  know,  Doctor — nobody  knows!  I  sometimes 
wonder  if  even  the  Almighty  knows  right  from  wrong." 

I  heard  the  the  door  swing;  its  creak  was  like  a  hush.  I 
9  121 


The  Lone  Furrow 


was  glad  of  the  relief.  Jean's  despair  and  revolt  were  too 
powerful  for  my  weak  man's  mastery;  but  the  Memsahib 
would  conquer  it  with  just  the  uncombative  way  of  a  wom- 
an. She  could  talk  to  Jean  of  the  unborn  babe  until  she 
became  like  the  Madonna,  seeing  nothing  of  the  illimitable 
misery  of  the  world,  nothing  but  the  savior  that  had  been 
given  her  of  the  Creator. 


122 


CHAPTER   IX 

NCE  in  the  hush  of  midnight  Memsahib  and 
I  sought  to  untangle  this  delicate-threaded 
skein  of  correlative  affliction  that  draggled  so 
persistently  at  the  heels  of  Jean's  trials.  Mem- 
sahib  held  the  invisible  skein  in  her  delicate 
hands,  while  I  blunderingly  sought  for  the  true  thread  of 
continuity. 

With  a  tug  at  an  evident  thread  I  exclaimed :  "  Jean 
gives  expression  to  such  extraordinary  pronounced  bitterness 
against  the  Church  influence  that  has  practically  submerged 
her  living  life  in  a  living  death  of  despond.  With  her 
constancy  and  courage,  Christianity  should  have  sustained  her 
even  in  a  trial  of  this  magnitude." 

"  You  forget  something,  husband,"  Memsahib  answered 
— going  on  to  show  me  that  I  had  seized  upon  the  wrong 
thread — "  at  present,  Jean  is  not  Jean  at  all — she  is  an 
overtried  woman  with  tortured  nerves.  A  woman  in  her 
condition  is  subject  to  strange  fancies  and  hallucinations; 
everything  rational  becomes  irrational.  Why,  I've  known 
a  woman,  conjuring  up  disaster  for  her  unborn  babe,  to 
turn  against  her  own  mother ;  so  when  Jean  says  she  doubts 
God's  goodness,  she  just  voices  one  of  these  suspicious  an- 

123 


The  Lone  Furrow 


tipathies  that  she  might  have  held,  without   the   slightest 
cause,  against  you,  or  me,  or  Bain,  or " 

The  Memsahib  hesitated.  I  knew  she  was  casting  about 
in  her  mind  for  even  a  stronger,  closer  tie  of  consanguinity 
that  Jean  should  have  held  to,  and  it  came  to  me  suddenly, 
as  a  revelation,  that  Memsahib  had  exhausted  the  list.  In 
the  whole  world  we  three,  unrelated  to  Jean,  were,  by  a 
caprice  of  Fate,  the  bounden  Door  of  Hope  to  the  Valley  of 
Achor  in  which  she  wandered. 

The  Memsahib  resumed,  returning  empty-handed  from 
her  mental  search :  "  Jean's  child  will  lead  her  back  to  a 
Christian  acceptance  of  God's  dispensing,  then  she  will  be- 
come her  old  self  again.  I  don't  mean  that  if  Neil  is 
still  absent,  his  fate  wrapped  up  in  mystery  or  solved  in  a 
bitter  way,  that  she  will  be  the  joyous  woman  she  was  be- 
fore, but  she  will  bear  her  cross  bravely;  and  for  such  as 
do  that,  there  is  a  sweet  reward  of  hope." 

Then  at  once  I  discovered  a  tangle  in  the  skein.  "  If 
the  blow  falls  before  her  baby  is  born,"  I  said — "  if  some- 
thing terrible  transpires  over  Neil's  fate  ?  " 

The  Memsahib  figurately  rolled  the  whole  skein  into  a 
hard  ball  by  answering :  "  We  shall  know  this  first  and,  if 
necessary,  we  must  tell  Jean  a  deliberate  lie — I  shall;  and 
I'm  sure  I  shall  be  forgiven  for  the  sin,  if  it  be  one.  We'll 
lock  the  gate  against  every  tongue,  and  tell  her  that  there 
is  no  news  of  Neil — until  after." 

"Yes,  we've  put  our  hands  to  the  plow,  girl,  and  we 
must  not  turn  back.  I'm  with  you — we'll  carry  Jean." 

Memsahib  gave  me  one  of  her  quaint  little  smiles  of 
appreciation  and  took  my  face  in  her  hands,  saying :  "  And 
all  for  my  friend — you  are  very  good !  " 

I24 


The  Lone  Furrow 


"  My  friend,  too,"  I  answered. 

Then  to  prove  my  willing  interest,  I  dipped  into  plans 
for  the  future,  saying  cheerfully: 

"I'll  conjure  up  happenings  to  break  the  monotony; 
and  what  has  become  of  our  picnics  to  West  Branch — by 
Jove!  just  when  they  were  most  needed,  too.  We've  forgot- 
ten all  about  them,  haven't  we?  " 

"  So  we  have — it  is  strange  the  children  haven't  been 
clamoring  for  them.  We'll  have  one  to-morrow  and  twice 
a  week  after  this  until " 

The  Memsahib  hesitated.  That  dreadful  until !  it  would 
end  many  a  sentence  of  hope  and  despair  for  us,  until — 
ah !  there  it  was  again. 

"  Yes,  to-morrow,"  I  concurred  eagerly ;  "  it  will  do 
Jean  good  in  every  way.  Will  you  round  up  some  of  the 
other  children,  Isabel  and  Margie;  and  I'll  ask  Bain?  He'll 
be  handy  to  have  along;  he'll  keep  an  eye  on  the  weather 
for  us." 

"  No,  not  Malcolm!  "  Memsahib  objected,  and  her  lips 
were  hardened  to  thinness  in  decision. 

"Why  not?  He'd  enjoy  it — he's  just  as  simple  as  a 
great  boy." 

"  Because — because — oh,  I  hate  to  even  think  of  it — I 
believe  women  are  the  most  spiteful  creatures  on  the  face 
of  the  earth." 

"  Yes,"  I  interjected  encouragingly. 

"  Well,  Miss  Harkett  has  heard  things." 

"  Which  was  it — the  Ladies'  Aid,  or  the  Sewing  Circle, 
or ?" 

"  It  isn't  in  the  Church.  You  know,  she  has  music 
pupils  in  many  homes,  and  I  suppose  they've  let  their 

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The  Lone  Furrow 


tongues  wag,   unconscious  of  the  terrible  crime  they   were 
committing." 

"  Yes,  yes,  please  connect  it  with  the  picnic,  else  I  don't 
want  to  hear  about  it.  For  unless  a  woman  sits  beside  a 
man  while  she  is  talking,  what  she  says  is  of  little  interest." 

"They  were  malignant — they  were  unthinking!  They 
said  that  Malcolm  was  in  love  with  Jean,  and  that  Minister 
must  have  come  to  know  of  this " 

"  I  think  he  must  have  known  that  before — others  did ; 
and  that  Jean  chose  the  man  she  loved." 

"  Don't  you  understand,  husband — they  are  saying  that 
Jean  really  loved  Malcolm  all  the  time." 

"  Which  is  nonsense." 

"  It  is;  but  their  vile  scandal  isn't  nonsense.  Think  what 
would  happen  if  it  were  whispered  loud  enough  for  Jean 
to  hear!  Don't  you  see? — she  is  so  entirely  innocent  that 
the  scandal  people  might  find  evident  confirmation  of  their 
lies;  and  Malcolm — well,  he's  just  stupid  in  his  absence  of 
consciousness." 

My  thoughts  went  back  to  the  trouble  in  the  grocery 
store. 

"  I  see ;  we  mustn't  have  Malcolm  at  the  picnic  then  ?  " 
I  questioned. 

"  No;  we  mustn't.    And  we  must  see  less  of  him  here." 

"  Heavens!  and  give  the  best  fellow  in  the  world  the 
cold  shoulder  because  some  old  cats  malign  him  ?  " 

"  No;  for  Jean's  sake — and  not  the  cold  shoulder." 

"  How  can  we  manage  it?  "  I  asked. 

"  I  don't  know.  We  must  just  see  as  we  go  along.  But 
this  is  one  case,  the  picnic,  in  which  we  need  not  help  the 
scandal." 

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The  Lone  Furrow 


"  Of  course  this  is  a  very  easy  proposition,  but  I  see  a 
vista  studded  with  pitfalls  before  us  in  a  general  endeavor 
to  head  off  a  man  unconscious  of  the  fact  that  he  is  not 
wanted.  And  I'd  rather  put  everyone  of  those  gossipers 
on  a  suttee  pile  and  cremate  them,  than  load  Malcolm's 
clean  mind  up  with  this  filth." 

On  the  morrow  the  Hedge  premises  fairly  vibrated  with 
a  bustling  preparation  for  our  picnic.  Of  course  it  was 
school  vacation,  and  the  children  were  primed  with  the 
giant  powder  of  readiness  for  fun. 

Such  a  merry  turmoil  in  the  kitchen  over  the  lunch 
basket.  The  sandwiches,  the  cakes,  the  bottle  of  milk,  the 
jar  of  lemonade,  and — it  was  my  suggestion,  born  of  many 
summers  on  the  Western  prairie — a  camp  kettle  for  tea. 

Blitz  understood.  He  sniffed  at  the  bathing  suits  ap- 
provingly. Upstairs,  downstairs,  and  in  the  Memsahib's 
chamber  he  scurried  after  the  little  ones. 

At  last  Cook  Sarah's  voice  is  heard :  "  Come  on,  chil- 
dren !  "  and  we  marshal  on  the  lawn,  bulging  with  utensils 
until  we  resemble  the  Acadians  about  to  be  exiled. 

Away  we  go;  Blitz,  fearful  that  he  may  be  forced  to 
share  the  fate  of  Laddie's  pup  locked  up  in  the  cellar,  scam- 
pers over  the  stone  wall  and  pushes  on  ahead.  He  knows 
quite  well  what  we  are  up  to. 

We  gather  in  our  quondam  relatives,  Margie  and  Eliza- 
beth, and,  like  a  comet — an  orderly  comet  of  leisurely  proce- 
dure— stream  over  the  hills  and  far  away  to  West  Branch, 
that  is  calling,  calling,  over  its  pebbled  reaches,  like  the  sea 
whispering  to  sons  of  mariners. 

The  small  feet  patter  eagerly  over  the  rustic  bridge  that, 
like  a  lover's  knot,  binds  the  cleaved  ends  of  the  pink  road- 

127 


The  Lone  Furrow 


way.  Beneath,  the  brook  chuckles  and  laughs  in  its  freedom, 
as  though  it  were  a  boy  playing  truant  from  school;  for, 
has  it  not,  higher  up  in  the  forest-holding  valley,  leaped  a 
wooden  dam  the  human  toilers,  beaverlike,  have  thrown 
across  its  path  ?  To  the  right  MacKay's  sign  "  Trespassers 
will  be  Prosecuted,"  leans  hopelessly  to  one  side,  and  some 
one,  in  misguided  humor,  has  hung  a  dead  crow  from  the 
post.  To  the  left,  following  the  lead  of  portly  Sarah,  we 
clamber  over  a  much-disarranged  panel  of  the  rail  fence,  and 
are  knee-deep  in  a  daisy-spattered  meadow;  purpled-plumed 
asters  are  trampled  ruthlessly  under  foot;  we  are  like  a 
destroying  army. 

As  if  to  escape  our  onslaught,  a  wild  clematis  has  rushed 
up  a  lightning-shattered  tree  stub  to  save  its  feathery  clusters 
of  white  star  flowers.  Across  the  stream  the  intense  green 
leaves  of  a  Virginia  creeper  drape  the  mournful  ugliness 
of  a  dead  pine. 

We  are  traveling  Into  a  horseshoe,  a  crescent  of  young 
cedars,  festooned  with  myriad  green  buds  till  their  boughs 
droop.  Here  and  there  in  this  olive-green  line  show  touches 
of  gold  and  silver  where  the  brook  smiles  at  the  sunlight, 
or  tosses  its  chipped  ripple  over  whispering  stones. 

The  brook's  purling  drone  hushes  us  of  the  care-thought 
to  silence;  its  song  is  a  lullaby  that  attunes  our  ears  to 
something  that  echoes  far  down  the  cavern  of  the  past, 
something  that  tinkled  in  the  laughing  days  of  childhood. 

But  the  children  race  with  eager  cries  through  the 
meadow,  and  the  tall  grass  grasps  and  clutches  at  their  pink 
legs  and  winds  about  their  little  toes,  and  there  is  always 
some  one  of.  the  seven  going  down  or  getting  up,  at  one  end 
or  other  of  a  fall. 

128 


The  Lone  Furrow 


I  hear  a  deep  drawn-in  breath  just  at  my  elbow;  some 
one  is  draining  a  cup  of  this  nature  nectar,  the  wondrous 
draught  that  is  sunshine  and  balsamed  air.  Then  a  voice 
says,  "  Isn't  this  glorious?  " 

I  turn  quickly  in  astonishment.     It  is  Jean. 

"  Here  we  are,"  says  the  Memsahib.  "  Hueh-h !  Thank 
goodness  that  basket  will  be  lighter  to  carry  home.  I'll  bet 
we've  forgotten  something — we  always  do;  sugar,  lemons? 
yes,  there  they  are."  Strange  to  say,  everything  needed  seems 
to  have  been  remembered. 

In  the  cool  shade  of  a  cedar  we  rest  after  our  battle  with 
the  sun.  Just  ahead  of  us  are  the  two  swimming  pools, 
41  Shiner  "  and  "  Two-logs."  These  bathing  ghats  arc  like 
the  village  school;  the  little  ones  as  they  learn  to  swim 
graduate  from  the  shallow  "  Shiner,"  with  its  floor  of 
gleaming  pearls,  to  the  great  lake  that  is  "  Two-logs."  I 
can  cast  a  fly  with  my  six-ounce  trout  rod  across  this  vast 
expanse  of  water,  but  to  the  little  ones  it  is  a  Hellespont. 

All  at  once  the  air  is  shattered  by  the  battle  cry  of 
Indians.  A  figure,  all  but  naked,  darts  from  behind  the 
hiding  skirts  of  a  cedar,  and  yelling  murderously,  "  Watch 
me  dive,  you  people — Hi-yi-yi-yi !  "  dashes  through  the  sun- 
light, then  disappears  over  a  cliff,  and  a  great  shower  of 
pearls,  sparkling  white,  are  thrown  above  the  emerald  grass 
border. 

There  go  the  whole  band  of  them — little  Sioux  in  pink 
and  blue  bathing  suits.  Involuntarily  my  fingers  are  at  my 
shoe  laces,  a  matter  of  thirty  years  wiped  off  the  slate  by  the 
necromancy  of  forgetfulness.  But  I  have  brought  my 
brushes,  to  take  my  share  of  the  sport  in  sedate  seriousness. 
The  bridge  with  its  simple  lines  suggests  tangible  results 

129 


The  Lone  Furrow 


with  little  perplexity  of  drawing.  The  strong  sunlight  sets 
forth  the  chiaroscuro  in  easy  blocks.  I  go  at  it  with  full 
brush,  with  an  indolent  nonchalance  that  promises  looseness 
and  breadth. 

Blitz  is  making  great  hunting  with  his  nose,  reading  the 
letter  page  of  the  night's  writing.  Just  there  where  the 
eddies  swirl,  jewel-beaded,  about  the  denuded  roots  of  a 
pine  stump,  purple-gray  from  twenty  years  of  weathering, 
ends  the  wondrous  trail  scent  of  some  vulgarly  perfumed 
traveler  whom  Blitz  would  like  to  reprimand  for  trespass. 
But  the  terrier's  cogitations  are  cut  short  by  Laddie,  who, 
seizing  him,  plunges  into  the  pool.  When  Blitz  reappears 
upon  the  bank  his  aspect  is  so  pathetic  that  Jean  laughs. 

Ah !  we  are  pleased  with  him  evidently ;  and  in  a  second 
he  is  at  our  feet,  sending  over  us  a  shower  of  water. 

A  red  squirrel  sits  upon  the  fence  and  cocks  his  whis- 
kered nose  inquiringly  at  the  noisy  animals  that  have  come 
into  his  domain.  "  Chirrh-rh-rh !  chuch,  chuch!"  Fatal 
note  of  expostulation;  unwise  denunciation;  for  Blitz,  leav- 
ing the  intangible  record  of  an  animal  that  has  come  and 
gone,  a  muskrat,  speeds  with  whine  of  delight  to  little  Reddy, 
whose  plumelike  tail,  flipping  so  jauntily  while  he  jeered  at 
us  slow-footed  humans,  is  now  straight  out  in  the  exigencies 
of  flight.  Fleet  as  he  is,  his  route  is  a  tortuous  one;  the 
rail  fence  is  a  series  of  recumbent  triangles;  his  course  is 
southeast  by  southwest,  nautically  diagramed. 

Now  Blitz  has  headed  him,  a  panel  of  the  fence  short  of 
a  tall  elm,  which  was  Reddy's  objective.  Back  they  come. 
The  dog's  eager  yelp  stirs  the  boy  in  me  again;  pallet  dis- 
carded, I  become  an  accomplice — not  possessed  of  blood  lust, 
but  chasing  up  and  down  without  thought  of  disaster  to 

130 


The   Lone  Furrow 


harmless  Reddy.  It  is  Doo-doo's  passionate  cry  of  reproach 
that  awakens  me  to  the  enormity  of  our  onslaught.  "  I  ought 
to  be  ashamed !  "  Indeed,  I  am,  now  that  Doo-doo  puts  it 
that  way.  And  Blitz,  who  has  clambered  to  the  topmost  rail, 
is  lifted  down  and  most  securely  held  close  to  the  cake  bas- 
ket, that  he  may  forget.  He  is  even  tempted  with  a  piece 
of  cruller,  which  is  his  epitome  of  gastronomic  indulgence. 

I  go  back  to  my  chromatic  scrawl;  my  eye  unblinded 
now,  freed  from  the  surcharge  of  color  by  the  interruption, 
takes  critical  cognizance  of  this,  my  latest  mournful  failure. 

The  sketching  never  comes  to  much  at  a  West  Branch 
picnic.  The  trees,  mighty  elms,  obdurately  elbow  too  much 
of  the  landscape  out  of  the  canvas ;  I  get  no  distance — every- 
thing is  in  the  front  yard,  and  behind  the  front  yard  is 
nothing.  There  are  no  converging  lines  in  field  beyond 
field — at  least  I  find  none.  And  at  close  range  the  bunchy 
cedars  symbolize  the  fiercely  green  trees  that  are  in  toy 
Noah's  arks. 

The  children  have  dressed  by  now,  and  like  hornets 
swarm  about  the  lunch  that  Sarah  has  spread  upon  a  rug. 

"  We  are  all  ready  for  the  tea,"  Memsahib  calls;  "  light 
the  fire." 

By  Jove !  I  had  forgotten  it.  Some  dry  twigs  are  quickly 
gathered;  I  put  a  finger  and  thumb  in  my  vest  pocket  and 
find  a  pencil  and  two  postage  stamps — they  are  the  stamps 
I  had  looked  for  so  earnestly  in  the  morning.  But  now 
my  search  is  for  a  match.  Generally  they  are  in  at  least 
three  pockets,  but  now 

"  Haven't  you  got  a  match?  "  Memsahib  asks. 

"  I'm  afraid—"  I  fumble.  "Ah,  by  Jove!  here's  one. 
We've  got  to  be  careful;  I've  got  just  one." 


The  Lone   Furrow 


There  are  some  dry  leaves  and  a  whittled  twig.  As  I 
kneel,  the  Memsahib  holds  my  coat  against  the  slight  breeze, 
and  Jean,  and  even  Sarah,  stand  in  tense  attitude,  watch- 
ing the  momentous  trial.  I  hold  my  breath  and  strike  the 
match.  It  flares  up  deceitfully;  one  leaf  is  seared,  and  that 
is  all.  We've  missed  fire. 

"  I've  never  seen  it  fail,"  the  Memsahib  remarks — 
"  never !  And  we  have  forgotten  something — the  matches  ; 
I  said  we  had — I  knew  it !  " 

I  sit  in  dejection.  Casually  I  notice  that  there  is  a  little 
glow  of  color  in  Jean's  pale  cheeks.  The  wondrous  triviality 
of  a  match  has  drawn  her  interest  into  forgetfulness ;  my 
panacea  of  hurly-burly  is  working  splendidly.  I  had  been 
all  for  a  cup  of  tea,  a  souchong  dipsomaniac;  but  now  lemon- 
ade— any  old  thing  will  do,  I  cry. 

"  My  dear  boy,"  objects  the  Memsahib,  "  you  must  think 
of  us  poor  women.  We've  simply  got  to  have  tea.  Jean 
needs  a  cup." 

"  I've  got  a  headache,"  declares  Sarah. 

"  How  they  do  hammer  a  man  when  he's  made  a  mis- 
take," I  mutter. 

"  I  can  get  a  match,"  offers  Laddie;  "  there's  men  work- 
ing in  the  field  up  on  the  hill — they'll  have  matches,  'cause 
they  smoke." 

So  away  the  boy  goes,  and  is  soon  back;  and  presently 
the  camp  kettle  is  giving  us  a  pibroch  like  faintly  heard 
bagpipes  pianissimo.  Then  there  is  spirit  rapping  from  the 
lid;  the  imprisoned  musician  suggesting  the  possibility  of 
moving  great  iron  engines. 

We  squat  like  Burmese  Phoongyis  about  a  pagoda  that 
is  a  pyramid  of  sandwiches.  We  worship  it  till  it  vanishes ; 

132 


The  Lone  Furrow 


when,  lo!  the  mango-tree  trick  is  outdone — Sarah  executes 
a  mystic  pass,  and  a  cake  appears  magically  in  its  place.  At 
a  cabalistic  word  from  the  Memsahib,  Sarah — she  is  greater 
than  Hermann — conjures  up  a  lemon  pie.  We  sit  around 
the  shores  of  this  little  lake  of  chrome  and  the  audience  yell 
with  delight;  table  manners  are  at  a  discount;  it  is  really 
a  pantomime  play  after  all. 

The  illusion  is  purely  hypnotic,  I  know;  otherwise,  why 
does  not  my  appetite  slacken  ?  I  imagine  I  have  eaten  things, 
for  I  am  still  hungry — we  all  are. 

I  am  eating  an  unsubstantial,  frail  something,  and  Kippie, 
holding  up  a  similar  strip  of  sweetness  says,  "  I  dess  love 
woman's  fumbs." 

Luckily  no  one  is  cruel  enough  to  correct  her  with 
"  lady-fingers,"  and  I,  speaking,  throw  the  blame  of  our 
laughter  on  Blitz. 

Bananas  walk  across  the  rug  and  languidly  recline  before 
each  squatter ;  oranges  roll  into  the  circle,  and  of  themselves 
select  their  individual  owners. 

There  are  at  least  seven  little  white  dogs.  I  have  just 
given  Blitz  the  last  of  a  sandwich,  and  yonder,  across  the 
little  valley  that  is  between  Doo-doo  and  me,  a  white  dog 
is  having  a  piece  of  cake.  Immediately,  just  at  my  left, 
Kippie  has  given  another  one  a  piece  of  pie  crust.  Indeed, 
it  is  magic,  because  Jean  is  laughing. 

"What's  the  joke?"  I  ask;  I  have  heard  nothing  hu- 
morous. 

"  You  are  stirring  your  tea  with  a  cruller,  Father." 
Doo-doo  bears  false  witness  I  declare.  And  I  had  not 
even  seen  the  tea  poured.  I  must  have  been  asleep  and 
dreaming,  for  the  beverage  wakens  me.  There  is  nothing 

133 


The  Lone  Furrow 


unusual,  absolutely  nothing;  there  is  only  one  little  over- 
fed white  terrier  rolling  contentedly  in  the  grass,  stuffed 
to  the  point  of  discomfort. 

"  You'll  have  indigestion,  Father,"  Doo-doo  says,  per- 
haps reading  my  thoughts.  "  Come  and  play  squat  tag.  And 
you,  too,  Mother." 

The  kindly  cedars  close  in,  holding  their  skirts  wide  to 
hide  us  from  chance  passers  on  the  road  as  we  play  squat  tag. 
Jean  is  drawn  so  far  into  it  that  she  acts  as  umpire;  just 
sipping  at  my  medicine,  I  call  it.  But  when  my  knees 
commence  to  ache  from  much  squatting,  I  know  that  my 
digestion  is  all  right,  and  say  so;  and,  lighting  a  cigar, 
stretch  myself  in  the  nestling  grass,  and  watch  the  green  fade 
from  the  little  valley  with  its  holding  of  hay  meadows,  and 
the  pines  that  shutter  its  upper  reach  grow  purple  beneath 
the  wine-red  sky. 

In  the  east  a  harvest  moon,  copper-hued,  draws  itself 
lazily  from  the  grasp  of  a  holding  hill.  In  fancy  I  see, 
winding  down  the  blurred  road-trail,  brawny  scythe  men, 
their  bare  arms  showing  nut  brown,  and  beside  them  trip 
maids  that  carry  stone  flagons  and  sheaves  of  grain.  One 
maid's  voice  carries  to  my  ears  saying:  "  Come  on,  Father, 
wake  up;  we're  going  home  now." 

"Gracious!  was  I  asleep?"  I  query,  in  too  frank  un- 
wisdom, and  they  all  laugh. 

The  long  hill  and  all  that  has  gone  before  tires  Kippie's 
little  legs,  and  taking  her  astride  my  shoulder  we  finish  the 
pilgrimage  marching  gallantly  up  the  center  of  the  village 
street. 

As  we  swing  through  the  Hedge,  Jean  sighs.  I  know. 
For  hours  she  has  forgotten — almost;  and  now  the  shadow 

134 


The  Lone   Furrow 


of  despair  chides  her  for  her  lapse  of  memory.  Just  a  little 
aftermath  of  depression,  the  dust  crumbling  back  into  the 
footprints  of  exhilarated  gambols.  I  am  wondering  if  my 
nature  panacea  will  allay  the  mind's  spiritual  illness — will 
the  sun  and  the  youth  elixir  check  the  heart's  revolt?  This 
summer  the  village,  with  its  varicolored  life,  had  thrust 
itself  suddenly  into  my  vision  like  an  apple  blossom  bursting 
forth  in  one  day  upon  a  leafless  limb.  Hitherto  the  vil- 
lagers had  been  people  who  had  followed  daily  vocations 
and  believed  in  the  church;  but  now  the  air  was  charged 
with  electric  currents  of  esoteric  projectings. 

Here  was  Jean,  stricken  by  sorrow,  neither  chastened 
to  a  greater  Christianity  nor  submissive  because  of  the 
scourge.  But  I  had  been  convinced  that  this  was  nothing 
more  than  a  phase  of  her  mental  illness,  just  as  when  one 
is  ill  physically  he  turns  against  all  physical  things,  food — 
everything. 

But  in  spite  of  the  Memsahib's  bravely  spoken  optimism, 
she  troubled  much  over  Jean's  spiritual  vagaries. 

The  Memsahib  was  as  stanch  in  her  convictions  as  John 
Knox;  the  stake  if  need  be,  but  no  wavering.  She  had 
always  looked  askance  at  the  Agnostic's  philosophy — she  had 
another  name  for  it  really,  and  now,  in  the  way  of  tribu- 
lation there  was  evidence  of  a  friendship  between  Jean 
and  the  Agnostic. 

I  was  sure  this  would  prove  helpful,  but  the  Memsahib 
was  cross  about  it.  When  I  maintained  that  the  Major  was 
altogether  lovable  in  his  nature  she  ignored  his  personality, 
and  pitched  upon  the  biting  evil  of  his  words;  his  cynical, 
ever-recurrent  attack  upon  church  people,  saying  impetu- 
ously: "  It  will  just  give  unkind  tongues  food  for  gossip. 

135 


The  Lone  Furrow 


They'll  say  Jean  is  a  backslider,  that  she's  a  friend  of  an 
enemy  of  the  church.  They  won't  understand  her  not  at- 
tending worship,  as  we  do ;  some  of  them  could  never  under- 
stand the  torture  she  would  undergo  facing  the  pulpit  that 
to  her  would  be  empty.  Besides,  we  can't  advise  the  village 
that  Jean  is  expecting  a  baby." 

"  But  it  is  going  to  be  so  difficult  to  hedge  Jean  about 
with  a  moral  barrier  that  these  strong  throwers  can't  top 
with  some  missile,"  I  answered  despondently.  "  It  will  come 
to  this,  if  we  keep  on,  that  I'll  have  to  put  on  the  door 
a  red  card  marked  '  scarlet  fever.'  We'll  be  practically,  so- 
cially, quarantined.  Lord  bless  me!  Allis,"  I  broke  in  im- 
patiently, "  Jean  is  a  free  agent.  If  she  wishes  to  talk 
to  a  good  clean  man  I  can't  first  catechize  him  on  the  articles 
of  faith." 

Strangely  enough  I  was  arguing  against  myself,  for  I  was 
really  at  one  with  the  Memsahib  on  this  question. 

"  Well,  I  know  one  thing,"  the  Memsahib  added  de- 
cisively, "  that,  wise  as  the  Agnostic  thinks  he  is,  and  clever 
as  his  Pagan  books  and  papers  may  be,  a  little  baby  will 
make  fools  of  them  all.  Jean  can't  feel  chubby  ringers 
kneading  her  cheek,  or  the  little  warm  arms  about  her  neck, 
and  believe  in  this  heathenish  thing.  She'll  be  thanking 
God  then  for  His  mercy  in  sending  her  something  to  love. 
That  will  be  her  salvation  from  everything." 

"  Or  if  Neil  should  be  found— alive,"  I  said. 

"  Yes,  but  I  can't  believe  that  he  will.  How  could  any 
sane  man  go  away  from  home  and  leave  a  woman  like  Jean — 
I  mean,  stay  away?  He  might  have  gone,  but  if  he  were 
alive  she  should  have  heard  from  him." 

"  But  Munro  wasn't  sane,  I'm  sure,"  I  interposed ;  "  Jean 
136 


The  Lone  Furrow 


doesn't  think  him  dead,  and  you  believe  as  well  as  I  do  that 
there  is  something  that  she  won't  speak  about." 

"  It's  all  guesswork — dark  mystery;  I  strive  not  to  think 
of  it;  I  close  my  mind  to  everything  but  a  hope  that  he 
may  return  alive;  I  live  in  suspense,  just  trusting  in  the 
Lord's  protecting  care  for  the  time  till  Jean's  baby  comes." 

"And  won't  that  apply  to  the  Agnostic's  presence?  It 
may  help  to  keep  Jean  from  brooding." 

"  It's  a  dangerous  remedy."  She  caught  me  by  the  arm 
excitedly,  and  pointing  through  the  window  said :  "  The 
Major  is  coming  now,  and  Jean  is  on  the  lawn.  Just  keep 
him  from  talking  about  Christians  and  the  folly  of  religion." 

Hurrying  out,  I  saw  the  Major  sauntering  leisurely  up 
the  walk.  The  Major  had  a  mind  prolific  of  expedient,  and 
generally  bore  some  unnecessary  excuse  for  what  he  feared 
might  be  an  intrusion.  This  time  he  had  it  in  his  hand — 
a  pear,  rich  red  in  cheek. 

"What  kind  of  pear  do  you  call  this,  Doctor?"  he 
asked,  carrying  himself,  fruit,  and  question  through  the  gate. 

I  took  the  tempting  thing  gravely  enough,  and  knowing 
it  was  all  pretense  on  his  part,  deliberately  ate  the  mystery. 

"  I  call  it  a  good  pear,"  I  answered,  "  and  that's  about 
as  strong  as  I  am  on  horticulture." 

The  Major  laughed,  saying:  "That  grew  on  a  tree  in 
my  yard  and  I  have  never  known  the  name  of  it;  besides, 
I  have  never  had  so  sensible  an  answer  before.  I  think  if 
we'd  trouble  less  over  the  abstract  attributes  of  things,  such 
as  that  pear's  proper  name,  and  enjoy  the  goodness  of  them, 
we'd  be  happier." 

I  headed  him  off  by  chasing  Blitz  away  from  a  cat  he 
had  treed  up  the  maple. 

10  137 


The  Lone  Furrow 


But  Fate  had  been  busy  in  the  meantime,  for,  when  I 
came  back  to  the  lawn,  Jean  from  the  hammock  was  carry- 
ing the  Agnostic  along — she  was  saying:  "  If  we  would  only 
speak  from  our  absolute  knowledge  there  would  be  fewer 
lies  told." 

"  Yes,  we  might  well  think  more  and  talk  less,"  I  said, 
sitting  down. 

"  But  you  Christians  condemn  unbounded  exercise  of 
thought,"  the  Agnostic  added ;  "  blind  acceptance  of  formu- 
lated tenets,  that's  the  superstructure  raised  upon  a  mytho- 
logical base." 

I  was  accustomed  to  this  sort  of  thing,  but  I  turned 
apprehensively  toward  Jean.  In  surprise  I  noticed  that  she 
was  not  even  startled. 

"  Indeed,"  she  said,  harking  a  little  back  to  my  speech, 
"  after  all,  words  are  better  than  thoughts.  It  is  the  silent 
argument  that  makes  cowards  of  us  all;  dragons  can  be 
explained  away.  If  we  could  come  face  to  face  with  every 
accusation,  let  light  in  on  every  dark  spot — well,  it  would 
be  at  least  brighter.  It  is  the  cutting  that  lends  beauty  to 
the  diamond;  the  noblest  sentiment  hidden  in  itself  is  of 
little  avail;  love  unuttered  is  almost  like  a  poison,  it 

Jean  stopped  suddenly,  and  taking  up  the  trail  of  her 
startled  eyes  I  discovered  Bain's  head  just  topping  the  hedge. 
He  had  come  straight  across  the  noiseless  earth  road;  his 
solemn  face,  full  to  us,  looked  grotesquely  droll,  its  seem- 
ing support  the  slender  lilacs. 

I  swung  my  hand  toward  the  gate,  and  as  Bain  joined 
our  group  he  had  his  usual  alpha  of  conversation. 

"  That  was  a  fine  shower  last  night,"  he  said,  as  he 
took  the  camp  stool  I  held  toward  him.  "  Yes,  a  fine 

138 


The  Lone  Furrow 


shower,"  he  continued ;  "  it'll  bring  on  the  fall  pasture.  I'm 
thinking  we'll  have  a  wet  month.  The  moon  has  been 
drinking  heavily  the  first  half,  and  we'll  get  it  back — we'll 
get  it  back.  Aye,  that's  nature's  way — '  for  value  received 
I  promise  to  pay.'  " 

"  Your  big  body,  Malcolm,  is  fattening  to  the  excellence 
of  some  future  ruler  of  men  according  to  that,"  I  com- 
mented. 

"  It'll  be  little  use  without  the  mainspring,  I'm  think- 
ing," Malcolm  replied,  "  and  I'll  be  needing  that  myself, 
wherever  I  am." 

"  We  were  just  discussing  something  of  that,  Cameron 
and  I,"  the  Agnostic  added. 

I  repudiated  this,  declaring  that  such  matters  were  be- 
yond me. 

"  They  shouldn't  be  that,"  objected  Bain.  "  Christianity 
is  a  very  simple  matter.  It's  like  all  things  pertaining  to 
creation,  wonderful  because  of  its  extreme  simplicity." 

"  The  Major  says  it  is  mythology,"  I  objected ;  and  im- 
mediately I  realized  I  had  given  him  an  opening. 

"  It's  too  simple  for  yon  complicated  business,  my- 
thology," Bain  affirmed.  "  It's  just  following  what  a  man 
knows  to  be  his  true  guidance.  There's  little  sin  because  of 
actual  ignorance,  in  spite  of  all  we  hear  on  yon  point." 

"There  you  are,"  cried  the  Agnostic  exultantly;  "all 
the  teaching's  for  nothing.  And  yet  Christians  claim  that 
Agnosticism  is  a  dangerous  thing,  that  free  thought  is  the 
Devil's  invention." 

"  Agnosticism  is  hardly  a  dangerous  thing,"  declared 
Bain,  to  my  astonishment  and  to  the  Agnostic's  pleasure,  for 
his  face  lighted  up.  "  It's  just  a  hopeless  sophistry,"  Mal- 

139 


The  Lone  Furrow 


colm  added,  after  an  aggravating  pause;  "it's  not  strong 
enough  to  be  dangerous,  it's  just  hopeless — just  hopeless." 

"  How  is  that,  man  ?  "  queried  the  Agnostic. 

"  Well,  I'm  thinking  it  wouldn't  harm  a  strong,  upright 
man  much,  that  is,  from  the  viewpoint  of  his  fellows.  You're 
an  example  yourself.  I'd  be  very  willing  to  vote  for  you 
if  you  were  running  for  Parliament,  for,  as  Antony  said, 
'  You're  an  honorable  man.'  " 

"  Thank  you,  Malcolm." 

"  In  that  way  there's  little  to  choose  between  your  way 
of  thinking  and  my  own,  or  any  other  Christian's ;  but  Chris- 
tianity, the  Church,  will  pull  a  man  out  of  the  gutter.  Poor 
weaklings — and  the  world  is  full  of  them — find  the  flabby 
muscles  of  their  minds  toughened  and  made  strong  by  it; 
aye,  even  strong  men  that  have  gone  wreak,  because  of  pres- 
sure, are  brought  back  to  moral  health  by  the  simple  lesson 
that  God  loved  such  that  are  of  that  portion  of  the  world 
so  much  that  He  sent  His  own  son  as  bearer  of  this  mes- 
sage of  redemption,  or  help,  or  hope,  whichever  you  choose 
to  call  it.  And  that  shows  the  use  of  Christianity,  and 
the  uselessness  of  Agnosticism,  and  the  hopelessness  of  it, 
because  I  never  yet  knew  a  man  that  it  found  in  the 
mire  and  sat  him  in  the  clean  sweet-smelling  meadow 
of  life." 

I  stared  at  the  heavy-headed  man  that  was  talking  in 
the  low,  measured,  earnest  voice  of  one  who  relates  a  true 
happening  of  interest. 

"  Very  fine,  Malcolm,"  the  Agnostic  declared,  "  but  it 
doesn't  work  out.  What  do  we  see  here  in  the  village  in 
the  way  of  religion?  There's  Mrs.  MacCormick — I'll  give 
you  a  sample  of  Church  tuition.  She's  the  strictest  body 

140 


The  Lone  Furrow 


in  the  whole  Kirk — in  the  Kirk,  mind  you,  I  say.  Last  year 
she  came  to  me  two  weeks  before  Thanksgiving  and  ob- 
tained an  order  for  a  turkey.  Turkeys  were  twelve  cents 
a  pound  in  the  stores,  but  hers  were  to  be  '  birds,'  something 
extra,  mind  you,  corn  fed  and  all  the  rest  of  it,  and  fourteen 
cents  a  pound,  my  dear  boy.  Well,  I  agreed  to  take  one. 
She  said  that  everybody  was  to  pay  her  that  price  for  her 
turkeys,  being  so  fine,  mind  you." 

"  By  Jove!  I  got  one  of  that  lot,"  I  said;  "  go  on;  what 
happened — I  believe  I  know." 

"  If  you  got  one  from  Mrs.  MacCormick  you  do  know. 
I  was  away  the  day  the  Christian  body  brought  the  bird, 
and  the  good  wife  took  it  in  and  paid  fourteen  cents  a 
pound ;  and  as  true  as  I'm  sitting  here,  that  poor  dead  turkey 
had  peas  enough  in  his  crop  to  have  kept  him  over  winter. 
His  neck  looked  as  if  he  had  died  of  goitre.  I  weighed 
his  crop — nigh  on  to  two  pounds.  Peas  are  worth  a  cent 
a  pound,  and  worthy  Mrs.  MacCormick  got  fourteen  for 
hers." 

"  My  turkey  was  the  same,"  I  concurred. 

41  Now,  was  that  Christian  dealing?  "  asked  the  Agnostic. 

"  No,  it  was  not,"  declared  Bain ;  "  and  if  it  wasn't  for 
that  same  sort  of  thing,  for  the  evil  weakness — cupidity  and 
the  rest  of  it  that  is  in  humanity,  Christian  teaching  wouldn't 
be  needed  at  all." 

"  But  she's  had  a  fair  chance  at  Christian  teaching." 

"  Aye ;  I  don't  know  how  she'll  turn  out.  It  takes  a 
long  time  with  some  of  them;  and  a  few  I'm  feared  never 
come  round — just  hang  off  too  late,  and  the  Devil  catches 
them  unawares.  I  believe  they  get  a  double  dose  of  punish- 
ment, too,  for  all  their  pretense." 

141 


The  Lone  Furrow 


"  Is  Mrs.  MacMillan  a  Christian?  "  asked  the  Agnostic 
pointedly. 

"  Man  alive!  I  can  hardly  answer  for  myself — I'm  always 
in  doubt." 

"She's  always  at  prayer  meeting;  and  just  now  she's 
crying  her  eyes  out  because  there's  no  regular  minister." 

"  She's  a  bit  troublesome  at  times,  I  must  admit,"  said 
Malcolm  calmly;  "she's  a  pushing  body.  I  think  she  likes 
to  see  the  church  in  a  prosperous  condition." 

"  She  doesn't  forget  Mrs.  MacMillan  in  the  meantime. 
Last  week  she  brought  a  basket  of  butter,  pound  prints.  I'm 
a  bit  suspicious  when  they  come  around  skipping  the  stores 
— there's  generally  something  doing.  '  Twenty-one  cents  a 
pound,'  quoted  she. 

"I'm  buying  from  the  stores  at  twenty,'  I  said. 

"  '  Where  do  they  get  their  profit,  for  they  offered  me 
twenty?  '  she  queried. 

' '  In  trade,'  I  replied ;  '  their  profit  is  on  their  goods.' 

"  '  All  right.     Twenty  cents  cash'll  do,'  said  she. 

"  I  tasted  the  butter — it  was  fine;  and  carried  it  to  the 
kitchen  to  give  her  back  her  basket.  On  the  way  I  kept 
thinking:  'This  can't  be  all  clear  sailing — what's  up  any- 
way that  she's  come  to  me  ?  ' ' 

"  You're  a  suspicious  man — you're  lacking  in  faith,"  com- 
mented Bain  dryly. 

"  Aye ;  dealing  with  Christians." 

"  I  turned  a  pound  pattie  of  the  butter  over,  hefting  it 
in  my  hand,  judging  if  the  weight  was  short  or  not.  It  was 
a  lovely  yellow  and  solid  as  Jersey  butter  should  be.  Sud- 
denly I  discovered  a  change  of  color  on  the  bottom  of  the 
pattie;  and  there,  like  a  silver  medal — no,  like  a  lead  medal, 

142 


The  Lone  Furrow 


was  a  big  wad  of  pale — well,  Lord  bless  you,  man,  it  may 
have  been  lard;  but  it  was  dovetailed  into  the  real  thing  so 
that  only  an  expert  could  have  found  it.  And  it  was  rank — 
by  Jove !  but  it  was  rank !  " 

"  What  did  you  do?"  Malcolm  asked,  and  I  saw  Jean 
holding  her  lips  tight  against  a  laugh. 

"Do?  I  took  it  back  to  Mrs.  MacMillan — she  was 
sitting  in  the  hall  with  a  face  as  meek  as  that  picture  of 
Nicodemus  on  the  Sunday-school  cards.  I  handed  the  basket 
to  her  saying,  '  The  housekeeper  has  just  bought  a  quantity 
of  butter,  and  she's  against  my  taking  this  while  the 
weather's  hot ! ' ' 

"  Man,  were  you  afraid  to  tell  her  the  truth,"  queried 
Bain,  "  that  you  must  put  the  blame  of  refusal  on  the  good 
housekeeper  ?  " 

"  Is  there  a  man  in  this  village  that  wouldn't  shrink  from 
Mrs.  MacMillan's  sharp  tongue?  Besides,  catching  a  body 
thieving  makes  one  feel  as  bad  as  if  he  were  an  accomplice, 
I  think." 

"What  did  she  say?"  asked  Malcolm,  and  from  the 
wrinkle  in  his  cheek  I  knew  he  was  smothering  a  smile. 

"  Well,  the  angel  went  out  of  her  face  in  a  minute 
as  she  said: 

1 '  Bargains  is  like  pie  crust,  made  to  be  broke,  I  sup- 
pose.' 

"  '  Pie  crust  has  lard  in  it — too,'  I  remarked  at  that. 
1 '  I  don't  understand,'  said  she. 

'  The   bottoms   of    the   patties    are   bleached,    you've 
churned  in  the  sun,'  I  explained." 

"  Did  she  take  the  hint?  "  Malcolm  asked. 

"  She  took  the  hint,  basket,  butter,  and  all,  and  flounced 

143 


The  Lone  Furrow 


out  of  the  house,  very  angry  with  me  because  she  had  failed 
in  cheating  me,  and  now  she's  telling  everybody  I'm  an 
atheist  and  worship  graven  images." 

"  Aye,"  said  Malcolm  dryly,  "  and  she'll  not  fool  the 
Lord  with  the  spurious  article  in  her  religion  either.  It's 
only  the  honest  dealers  that'll  make  trade  with  Him." 

"Well,  what  do  you  make  of  that?"  queried  the  Ag- 
nostic. 

"Just  nothing  as  regards  religion;  but  it's  sad  to  see 
individuals  too  near  in  a  bargain.  I've  seen  a  cow  on  a 
farm  that  was  what  they  call  a  robber  cow;  she'd  eat  as 
much  as  any  of  them,  and  look  slick  and  contented,  but 
she'd  be  a  bad  milker,  and  inferior  quality  at  that.  But  the 
farmer  would  not  give  up  butter  making  and  condemn  the 
whole  business.  Generally  he'd  turn  the  robber  into  beef. 
We  can't  do  that  with  the  delinquents  in  the  Church,  of 
course,  but  we  can  utilize  them  in  some  other  way.  Now, 
the  lady  you  speak  of  will  do  more  to  make  a  church  social 
a  success  than  any  other  woman  in  the  congregation;  and, 
though  you  mightn't  believe  it,  she's  a  free  giver  to  mis- 
sions and  all  calls  on  the  purse." 

"  Missions !  "  snorted  the  Agnostic.  "  They'll  give  to 
missions,  to  the  heathen  in  Africa  or  India.  Aye,  and  didn't 
they  let  that  poor  body,  Jennie  Stubbs,  starve  to  death,  be- 
cause her  brother  drank  all  his  money  and  wouldn't  sup- 
port her?" 

"  I  didn't  know  of  that  in  time,"  answered  Malcolm ; 
"  I'm  afraid  there's  some  truth  in  it." 

"  What's  your  opinion  of  missions?  "  asked  the  Agnostic, 
turning  to  me;  "  you've  been  in  India,  Cameron." 

"  I  haven't  much  faith  in  them,"  I  answered  candidly 
144 


The  Lone  Furrow 


enough.  "  I  know  in  Calcutta  none  of  the  Sahibs  would 
hire  a  Christian  servant  if  they  could  get  a  Mussulman,  or 
even  a  Hindoo.  I  had  one,  a  Telugu,  from  the  Madras 
coast,  and  I  thought  he  was  an  exception  to  this  rule,  but 
in  the  end  he  looted  me  thoroughly." 

"  It  wasn't  Christianity  that  made  him  bad  though,"  ob- 
jected Bain,  "  he  was  simply  a  bad  Christian." 

"  Yes,  he  was  a  bad  Christian,  right  enough ;  and  the 
warmed-up  article,  I'm  afraid,  is  apt  to  produce  spiritual 
indigestion.  It's  like  feeding  a  rice-eater  upon  canned  beef, 
this  insistent  swap  of  religions." 

"  Religions?  "  quoted  Malcolm — "  they're  pagans." 

"  And  yet  one  of  the  holiest  men  I  ever  knew  was  a 
Buddhist,"  I  contended — this  talk  having  carried  me  back  to 
a  sweet  memory — "  one  Pathenine." 

"  There  you  are,"  said  the  Agnostic,  "  Christianity  or 
a  belief  in  religion,  you  see,  is  not  necessary  to  produce  the 
finest  quality  of  human." 

"  In  his  case  it  was,"  I  objected ;  "  it  was  his  faith  in  the 
Buddhist  religion,  which  is  not  so  very  dissimilar  from  our 
own.  He  was  held  to  his  high  moral  plane  by  the  Bud- 
dhistic Christ — Gautama." 

"  But  would  that  simple  faith  be  sufficient  for  the  higher 
mental  development  that  people  living  in  America  or  Europe 
possess?"  queried  Bain.  "It  may  have  held  good  in  your 
Burman's  case ;  no  doubt  he  was  a  man  of  the  jungle." 

"Indeed,  he  was  not;  he  was  cashier  in  the  Bank  of 
Bengal  in  Akyab,  an  educated  man,  and  a  fine  Shakespearian 
scholar,  too,  at  that." 

"  Hadn't  we  one  such  in  our  own  village?  "  declared  the 
Agnostic,  "  John  Lancey.  I  mention  his  case  to  disprove 

145 


The  Lone  Furrow 


your  argument,  Cameron,  that  a  man  must  believe  in  the 
Unseen  to  be  superlatively  good  in  the  evident.  For  twenty 
years  John  was  never  inside  a  church,  and  when  he  died 
every  man,  woman,  and  child  was  at  his  funeral,  and  it 
was  felt  that  the  sweetest,  most  honorable  man  in  the  whole 
village  had  gone !  " 

"  He  was  a  rare  man,"  affirmed  Malcolm.  "  If  ever  there 
was  a  human  that  didn't  need  spiritual  sustaining  it  was  Lan- 
cey.  But  that  state  was  not  because  he  didn't  accept  religion : 
it  was  because  he  didn't  know  how  to  be  bad,  he  was  bred  ab- 
solutely right.  His  mother  and  his  father  were  Church  peo- 
ple, and  he  never  went  wrong.  But  there's  Crowley,  and 
there's  Blake,  and  Smiley,  and  MacPhedran — they  were 
vomiting  their  souls  into  the  Devil's  caldron,  that's  what 
they  were  doing.  God!  man,  I've  seen  them  till  my  heart 
ached.  They  were  good  workmen — Crowley  was  as  fine  a 
carpenter  as  ever  drove  a  plane,  but  the  drink  turned  him  into 
a  poor,  useless  tool,  and  a  demon  to  his  family.  And  what 
saved  them — they're  men  now?  Was  it  teaching  them  there 
was  no  God  to  look  after  them  ?  No,  a  servant  of  God  " — 
Bain  lowered  his  voice  till  it  fell  short  of  Jean's  ears  and 
whispered,  "  Neil  Munro — with  the  power  of  God  over  him, 
pulled  those  weaklings  back  from  the  mouth  of  the  pit,  and  if 
you  asked  them  to  go  back  to  the  old  life  because  some  one  in 
the  church  had  cheated,  they'd  look  on  you  as  insane." 

"  You  mustn't  count  me  on  your  side,"  I  said  laughingly 
to  the  Agnostic;  "  though  I  have  little  faith  in  the  missions, 
yet,  like  Bain  here,  I  think  we'd  be  very  badly  off  without 
something  to  make  fast  to.  Life  is  an  erratic  flood,  and  we're 
cockle-shell  craft  at  best." 

"  God  is  indeed  deified  by  some,"  the  Agnostic  asserted ; 
146 


The  Lone  Furrow 


"  good  results  are  attributed  to  His  influence,  and  bad  happen- 
ings to  the  Evil  One's  machinations.  The  men  you  speak  of, 
Bain,  were  strengthened  by  the  influence  of  an  enthusiastic 
human.  He  opened  their  eyes  by  a  living  picture  of  their 
own  loss,  physically " 

I  felt  a  hand  on  my  shoulder.  Bain  and  the  Agnostic 
rose  together.  "  Good  day,  Mrs.  Cameron." 

The  Memsahib,  leaning  over  the  bench  back,  said,  to  my 
astonishment,  in  an  even  tone:  "  Don't  let  me  interrupt  you, 
Major." 

Inwardry  I  smiled,  for  I  could  see  that  he  did  not  relish 
the  idea  of  continuing  in  the  presence  of  the  Memsahib. 

"  I  was  just  saying,"  he  continued,  "  that  organic  results 
are  credited  often  to  visionary  causes ;  an  argument  without 
correlative  proof  must  be  weak :  it's  like  believing  in  clairvoy- 
ants and  spiritualists.  There  is  no  such  thing  as  influence 
upon  the  mind  other  than  that  which  can  be  conveyed  materi- 
ally, physically — by  sight,  or  sound,  or  touch ;  pain  teaches  us 
fear,  and  having  seen  pain  removed  or  alleviated,  we  get  hope ; 
and  we  come  to  have  faith  in  others  by  having  seen  their 
words  come  true.  Theosophists,  with  their  Mahatmas  and 
their  esoteric  projections,  are  not  greater  humbugs  than  some 
Christians  who  juggle  with  God's  spirit,  using  it  as  a  scourge, 
or  a  reward,  its  very  inefficacy  of  nonexistence  rendering  it 
the  more  terrible  to  those  who  dread  the  unseen,  the  un- 
known." 

"  You  mean,  Major,  that  there's  no  interchange  of  spirit 
influence  except  by  words,  or  sight,  or  touch — in  fact,  that  it 
would  need  a  transmission  of  a  message  from  one  mind  to  an- 
other, outside  of  one  of  these  three  manifestations,  to  prove 
you  are  wrong,  for  instance?  "  the  Memsahib  asked  quietly. 

147 


The  Lone  Furrow 


"  Yes,  Mrs.  Cameron ;  I  think  that's  my  point  of  view." 

"  Well,  Major,  if  you  will  kindly  come  with  me  to  the 
nursery  I  think  I  can  convince  you  that  there  is  still  something 
in  the  universe  your  logic  cannot  account  for.  And  we  must 
have  the  others  as  witnesses." 

The  Memsahib  smiled  very  gently  into  my  wondering  eyes 
as  we  rose  to  follow  her  lead.  I  was  glad  to  see  Jean  come 
as  eagerly  as  the  others. 

Upstairs,  our  footsteps  hushed  by  a  strange  expectancy, 
we  crept  noiselessly,  and  at  the  nursery  door  Memsahib  put 
a  finger  to  her  lips  warningly.  We  tiptoed  gently  into  the 
room  and  the  Memsahib  pointed  toward  the  cot  upon  which 
the  twins,  Elsie  and  Beatrice,  were  lying  asleep.  At  once  I 
understood  her  strategy,  for  we  had  often  discussed  in  won- 
derment the  phenomenal  unity  of  spirit  that  governed  the  lit- 
tle girls'  actions. 

One  twin  was  a  replica  of  the  other  in  posture.  They 
were  lying  on  their  left  sides,  exactly  alike ;  left  hand  under 
cheek,  and  the  right  folded  sweetly  across  a  plump  little  chest, 
even  the  restful  droop  of  each  head  was  the  same. 

It  was  not  necessary  for  the  Memsahib  to  speak.  The 
Agnostic  took  in  the  full  significant  beauty  of  the  scene,  and 
I  think  it  suffused  his  being  with  the  same  gentle  wonderment 
that  it  did  ours. 

But  Memsahib  was  only  half  done  with  her  experiment. 
She  rocked  the  foot  of  the  cot  gently  back  and  forth  on  its 
castors;  just  enough  to  half  rouse  the  little  ones  from  their 
deep  slumber.  With  a  deeper  breath,  a  little  sigh,  Elsie  un- 
curled her  arms,  and  turning  over,  rested  with  one  chubby 
hand  folded  over  the  other.  While  one  could  count  five  we 
stood  in  breathless  suspense,  waiting — we  all  understood. 

148 


The  Lone  Furrow 


With  what  intensity  I  watched  a  sign  of  compliance  from 
Bee.  Ah !  I  could  have  shouted  in  triumph,  for,  as  if  called 
by  a  voice  in  slumberland,  Bee  turned,  her  fingers  groped  for 
each  other,  then  they,  too,  were  united. 

Memsahib  put  the  light  cover  softly  over  the  little  ones, 
and  turning,  I  saw  two  great  tears  pearling  Jean's  eyes. 

As  softly  as  we  had  come  up  the  stairs  we  went  down 
again,  I  explaining  to  the  Major  that  the  Memsahib  called  me 
to  the  nursery  almost  nightly  to  see  this  beautiful,  mysterious 
spirit-arranged  tableau. 

Outside  the  Major  said :  "  Thank  you,  Mrs.  Cameron ; 
that's  the  most  beautiful  sight  I  have  ever  seen." 

"  Yes,"  the  Memsahib  answered,  "  from  the  first  a  BaBe 
has  confounded  the  philosophers,  and  '  Of  such  is  the  King- 
dom of  Heaven.'  The  sublime  wisdom  of  Jesus  asserted  it- 
self when  He  said,  '  Suffer  little  children  to  come  unto  me,' 
for  there  is  no  element  in  the  world  so  powerful  to  alle- 
viate sorrow  or  to  keep  the  heart  pure  and  good  as  the  pres- 
ence of  little  children." 

I  think  the  two  men  would  have  liked  to  have  kissed  this 
wise  little  woman ;  I  did,  and  so  did  Jean. 

The  Memsahib's  object  lesson  had  the  curious  effect  of 
causing  the  argument  to  pass  into  oblivion. 

The  Major,  whether  he  felt  defeat  or  not,  had  the  deli- 
cacy to  convey  that  impression,  and  at  the  same  time  sustain 
the  sweet  ending  by  remaining  theologically  silent;  in  fact, 
with  protective  discrimination  he  took  up  the  matter  of  the 
Twins'  affinity. 

"  Their  resemblance  is  remarkable,"  he  said,  "  even  for 
twins;  I  can't  tell  them  apart." 

"  Nobody  can,"  claimed  Memsahib  very  proudly ;  "  I  am 
149 


The  Lone  Furrow 


always  being  corrected  myself  by  one  or  the  other  for  mis- 
naming them.  I  am  always  hearing,  '  I'm  not  Elsie,  Mother, 
I'm  Bee  ' ;  or  the  other  way  about.  In  fact,  to  the  family,  the 
name  '  Twinnie  '  has  become  absolutely  necessary.  It's  '  here 
Twinnie,'  or  '  waft  a  minute  Twinnie ' — that  saves  investiga- 
tion at  close  range." 

As  an  interested  partner  I  contributed  some  facts  out  of 
my  own  knowledge,  saying:  "  They  always  weigh  exactly  the 
same.  If  one  becomes  ill  the  other  seems  to  fall  away  in  flesh 
too;  we've  never  found  them  an  ounce  apart." 

"  But  if  one  gets  anything — measles,  or  cold,  or  croup, 
the  other  one  is  sure  to  get  it,"  Memsahib  interposed.  "  If 
Bee  hurts  herself,  Elsie  cries,  and  if  Elsie  is  sent  to  her  room 
in  punishment,  Bee  goes  and  sits  with  her." 

"  What  do  they  think  about  it  themselves,"  the  Major 
asked — "  or  do  they  think  separately  ?  " 

"  They  must  have  different  viewpoints,"  answered  the 
Memsahib,  "  for  they  quarrel." 

"About  who's  who?"  questioned  the  Major,  with  a 
laugh. 

"  One  of  their  quarrels  was  about — well,  it  was  this  way : 
They  were  in  bed  with  the  chickenpox,  and  Sarah  heard 
them  crying.  When  she  went  to  the  nursery  she  found  they 
had  fallen  out  over  the  momentous  question  as  to  which  had 
the  greater  number  of  pockmarks  on  her  face.  To  pacify 
them  Sarah  had  to  count,  and  Bee,  defeated,  made  it  honors 
easy  by  contending  that  she  had  more  on  her  body.  And  yet 
they're  curiously  mixed  themselves  over  each  other's  identity. 
I  observed  Elsie  looking  in  the  mirror  one  day,  and  casually 
asked  her  what  she  saw  there?  She  promptly  answered,  '  I 
see  Bee.' " 

150 


The  Lone  Furrow 


"  You're  to  be  congratulated  Doctor,  on  having  such  a 
pair  of  little  girls,"  the  Major  said,  provoking  a  pleased  smile 
from  the  Memsahib. 

"I'm  being  eclipsed,"  I  retorted.  "  When  I  first  came  to 
the  village  I  was  known  as  Allis  Bransford's  husband,  now 
I  am  known  as  the  '  Father  of  the  Twins.'  " 

Bain  laughingly  declared  he  must  go,  saying  there  was 
a  meeting  of  the  elders  that  evening  in  the  church. 

He  hung  for  a  little  over  the  gate,  allowing  the  Major  to 
move  away. 

"  Our  Agnostic  got  a  black  eye  over  his  materialistic  argu- 
ment," he  said,  his  big  shoulders  trembling  from  a  suppressed 
chuckle. 

"  What's  the  meeting  about,  Bain?  "  I  asked. 

"  A  section  are  determined  to  extend  a  call  to  the  Rev. 
Donald  Grey,  and  I've  got  to  fight  against  it.  If  they  get 
their  way  they'll  have  fine  punishment  coming  though,  for  he's 
a  narrow-minded  busybody  if  there  ever  was  one  in  the  minis- 
try. But  I  must  be  going." 

The  Memsahib  had  gone  into  the  house,  and  Jean  looked 
up  at  me  from  a  book. 

"  After  the  Agnostic,  Marie  Corelli,"  I  said,  reading  the 
title;  "  from  the  silent  velocity  of  the  spinning  top  to  the 
clatter  of  a  falling  pan!  It's  really  wonderful  how  solemn 
villagers  like  the  hysterical  in  fiction ;  I  dare  say  Corelli  has  a 
larger  constituency  here  than  Dickens." 

"  Dickens  was  more  stertorous  in  his  hysterics,"  Jean  an- 
swered. "  Yes,  Marie  Corelli  is  hysterical ;  she  is  heretical, 
devotional,  emotional,  vivacious,  dull,  clever,  stupid — I  sup- 
pose she  is  intensely  human — I  mean  she  mirrors  forms 
that  we  could  find  right  here  in  our  own  village,  speaking  a 


The  Lone  Furrow 


different  language,  a  different  cut  to  their  coats;  and  some  of 
Mane's  people  are  altogether  as  small  of  soul — as  vile  in  their 
Cainlike  brotherhood  as  some  we  have." 

"  You  are  still  listening,  Jean,  to  the  voices  of  the  after- 
noon, the  one  voice.  The  Agnostic's  tongue  leaves  a  sting 
that  festers.  Why  can't  you  remember  just  the  beautiful,  the 
simple  discomfiture  of  the  wise  man  by  babes?  That's  really 
God's  answer  to  such  things  — '  by  works  shall  ye  know 
them.'  Could  the  Agnostic,  or  the  philosophic  writers  he 
quotes  from,  create  one  alleviating  panacea  for  the  heart-sick- 
ness of  the  world  ?  " 

"  The  life  here  is  beautiful,  Doctor ;  the  children  keep  my 
heart  from  starving;  I  sit  in  the  shadow  and  they  come  with 
their  little  hands  and  draw  me  forth  into  the  sunshine,  and 
when  their  hands  release  me  I  go  back  into  the  vale  of  dark 
shades." 

"  But  the  shadow  will  be  all  sunshine  when  the  Creator 
lets  the  full  light  in." 

"  When !  yes.  But  why  should  God  wait  until  it  is  too 
late?  Why  do  graves  yawn  openly  to  close  over  drunkards 
too  late  ?  Why  was  my  brother  born  to  go  down  the  aisle  of 
life  between  pews  holding  saintly  ones  pointing  the  finger  of 
scorn  at  him  ?  What  has  He  done  for  me  ?  Since  I  was  born 
I  have  heard  little  else  but  talk  of  church  and  worship  and 
death,  and  I  have  tried  to  accept  what  the  others  profess  to 
take  with  closed  eyes  of  belief.  Why  do  I  now  doubt — why 
can't  I  accept  it  as  His  wise  will — what  have  I  left  undone 
that  a  human  being  could  have  done  to  become  reconciled  to 
God's  will?  I  believe  I  sacrificed  my  earthly  self  to  save  my 
soul.  My  husband  did  give  himself  absolutely  to  the  Lord's 
work,  and  could  the  Lord  help  him — did  He  try  ?  " 

152 


The  Lone  Furrow 


"  I  don't  understand,  Jean." 

"  No,  you  don't;  you  don't  know,  and  you  think  I'm  rebel- 
lious through  lack  of  grace.  But  what  is  to  soften  me?  If 
the  Maker's  love  is  a  relentless  persecuting  semblance  of  hate 
and  destruction  how  am  I  to  incline  my  heart  toward  Him?  " 

"  I  must  keep  the  Agnostic  away,  Jean,"  I  said  firmly ; 
"  he's  doing  you  harm." 

"  The  Agnostic  is  as  powerless,  as  ineffectual  one  way  or 
the  other,  as  are  the  revilers  or  the  consolers  across  the  way ; 
just  words  they  utter,  meaningless  words.  It  is  the  terrible 
actualities,  the  fearful  ruin  of  the  bodies  and  souls  of  those 
I  love  that  burns  my  heart  to  ash,  and  withers  my  own  soul 
till  it  is  but  a  torturing  spirit." 

Jean  saw  in  my  eyes  the  pain  her  words  caused,  and  the 
heart  she  had  spoken  of  as  ash  throbbed  warm  and  generous 
in  an  instant.  She  put  her  hand  on  my  arm,  and  leaned  her 
face  close  under  mine,  her  big  black  eyes  welled  full  of  tears 
as  she  pleaded :  "  Forgive  me — I  pain  you ;  I  am  weak,  mis- 
erably ungrateful  for  your  care.  O  my  God!  how  can  I 
keep  in  faith  or  hope !  You  would  pity  me  more  than  you  do 
if  I  could  tell  you  everything,  but  I  can't — I  can't;  I'm 
so  alone !  " 

"  You're  with  friends,  Jean;  you're  not  alone." 

"  I  know  I  have  friends  here  at  the  Hedge,  but  I  am  like 
a  stranger  in  a  great  city;  he  sees  faces  and  forms — they 
throng  about  him — they  encompass  him  on  every  side,  but  he 
can't  go  to  them  and  lay  his  heart  bare." 

"  If  it  will  do  you  good,  Jean,  you  can  confide  in  me,  tell 
me  everything." 

"  I  can't — I  can't!  I  must  just  sit  in  solitude — there  is  no 
one." 

11  153 


The  Lone  Furrow 


"  There  is  God,"  I  said. 

"  No,  not  even  Him.  I  cannot  be  a  hypocrite,  ask  Him  to 
help  me,  and  rebellion  in  my  heart.  I  have  been  tried  till  I 
am  broken.  Nothing  but  destruction  for  all  that  I  love.  I 
am  like  Rachael  weeping  in  the  wilderness  for  her  children 
— desolate;  and  out  of  the  wilderness  come  not  words  of 
Christian  sympathy,  but  a  mocking  echo  like  the  voice  of 
Bildad  the  Shuhite  crying  to  Job  that  the  affliction  the  Lord 
had  put  upon  him  was  because  of  his  sins.  Here  in  the  vil- 
lage are  many  Bildads  seeking  to  put  shame  upon  the  name 
of  a  man  who  wore  his  soul  threadbare  to  make  clear  the  way 
of  righteousness  to  them." 

At  once  I  knew.  I  sprang  to  my  feet  and  paced  the  lawn, 
schooling  my  mind  to  words  that  would  take  the  sting  out  of 
this  serpent  touch.  Jean  had  at  last  heard  of  the  village  gos- 
sip, I  knew. 

"  That  can't  be  so,"  I  said  at  last  in  desperation ;  "  they 
couldn't  speak  ill  of  Neil.  Confide  in  me,"  I  pleaded ;  "  tell 
me  what  it  is." 

She  handed  me  a  letter,  saying:  "  Read  this,  please,  Doc- 
tor, and  tell  me  what  I  am  to  do.  I  must  have  some  one  to 
talk  to  me  about  it.  My  mind  is  now  drowning  in  a  sea  of 
troubles — I  must  cling  to  somebody  or  I  shall  sink." 

Jean  left  me,  passing  swiftly  into  the  house,  and  I  knew 
that  the  fierce  storm  that  raged  in  her  heart  had  driven  up  a 
rain  of  tears.  It  would  be  a  blessed  relief. 

I  apostrophized  the  letter — "  So  you  are  the  lurking 
devil."  Unopened  it  scorched  my  hand — its  poison  oozed 
through  the  falsely  dainty  envelope.  "  A  she-devil's  work !  " 
I  muttered — "  the  heartlessness  of  the  sisterhood !  " 

The  mauve-colored  envelope  suggested  to  me  the  blue- 

154 


The  Lone  Furrow 


cowled  monkshood  that  flaunts  its  purple  bells  above  a  poi- 
soned stalk  upon  the  western  plains.  With  repugnance  I 
drew  forth  the  sheet,  traced  by  a  pen  dipped  in  spat-out 
cobra's  fluid.  It  was  signed  "  A  friend."  Such  a  friend ! 

The  subtle  wording  might  have  deceived  a  mind  less 
acutely  attuned  by  trial  than  Jean's,  but  even  I  saw  that  some 
one,  draped  in  the  tartan  of  clanship,  stabbed.  I  hid  the  ac- 
cursed thing  in  my  pocket  and  sat  unutterably  moody  and  de- 
pressed, thinking. 

The  Memsahib's  voice  roused  me,  saying:  "  What  has  hap- 
pened to  Jean  ?  I  heard  her  sobbing  in  her  room,  but  she  did 
not  answer  to  my  knock — what  is  it,  husband?  " 

"  She  has  had  a  letter " 

"  From  Neil — from  her  husband — has  she  heard  ?  " 

"  No,  it's  from  a  Witch  of  Endor."  I  drew  Jean's  letter 
from  my  pocket,  but  the  Memsahib  fended  it  away  with  her 
hand,  saying:  "  I  won't  touch  it — no,  no!  Tell  me  what  is 
in  it." 

"It's  about  Bain;  and  that  people  are  blaming  her  for 
keeping  up  the  split  in  the  church — keeping  the  pulpit  open 
through  Bain." 

"What  does  Jean  say?" 

11  She's  in  revolt  against  everything.  She's  like  a  runaway 
horse,  galloping  blind." 

"  Does  she  blame  anyone  for  it?  " 

"Yes." 

"Whom?" 

"  God." 

"  God!  What  are  you  saying,  husband?  " 

"  Yes,  she  blames  Him  for  everything — and  the  Church." 

"  It's  the  Agnostic's  fault,"  Memsahib  declared. 

155 


The  Lone  Furrow 


"  No,  it's  the  fault  of  the  Believers.  She  places  as  little 
reliance  on  the  Agnostic's  deductions  as  I  do ;  but  Jean's  a  wo- 
man of  strong  feeling,  and  she's  righting  in  the  only  way  she 
thinks  she  can." 

"  Give  me  the  letter;  I'll  ask  Jean  to  burn  it." 

"  If  we  could  only  burn  the  witch  that  sent  it.  For  want 
of  that  sacrificial  offering  I  think  I'll  burn  this  tempestuous 
book.  Marie  Corelli  and  her  spiritual  exotics  are  not  the  best 
thing  for  Jean  in  her  present  state,"  I  declared,  picking  up  the 
novel. 

"  Nonsense !  Jean  has  read  her  Bible  and  I'll  trust  in  that 
inspired  book  to  hold  its  own  against  all  others.  Give  me  the 
novel,  I'll  take  it  up  to  Jean.  It  might  rain  and  spoil  it." 

Little  the  Memsahib  cared  about  the  destruction  of  one 
of  Marie  Corelli's  novels,  I  knew,  but  it  was  a  curious  evil 
that  she  couldn't  turn  into  a  path  of  good,  and  this  would  be 
utilized  as  a  plea  for  entry  to  Jean's  room,  with  much  gentle 
consoling  sympathy. 

At  nine  o'clock  in  the  evening  Bain  called  just  long 
enough  to  tell  me  about  the  meeting  of  the  elders. 

"  Man,  but  they  were  obdurate,"  he  said.  '  Those  that 
were  for  keeping  the  pulpit  for  Munro  had  been  forced  to 
give  in  for  the  sake  of  peace  in  the  church,  and  were  for  ex- 
tending a  call  to  the  Reverend  Grey.  The  best  I  could  do 
was  a  compromise,  a  month  as  we  are,  with  Supply,  and  then, 
if  Neil  is  not  found,  we're  to  give  Grey  a  call.  I  got  the 
month  by  standing  out  against  the  little  busybody;  then  I 
agreed  to  having  him  in  exchange  for  a  month's  wait." 


CHAPTER  X 

|T  was  after  this  fashion  that  days  succeeded 
each  other  at  Lilac  Hedge.  They  were  like  a 
weather  indicator  that  varied  its  color  with  at- 
mospheric change,  some  bright — the  days  that 
were  left  to  ourselves  were  like  this — and  some 
darkened  by  an  evil  atmosphere  surcharged  with  enmity.  And 
all  the  time  absolute  silence  from  the  mystery;  no  decisive 
note  either  of  hope  or  despair. 

The  Hedge  life  might  have  been  styled  a  battle  between 
the  sustaining  influence  of  materialism  and  the  depressing 
effect  of  a  somber  spiritualism  that  hovered  over  our  heads,  a 
dark,  rainless  cloud.  Some  finality  from  this  shroud  of  mys- 
tery, like  a  fierce  downpour  of  rain  from  the  ominous  cloud, 
would  have  cleared  the  atmosphere. 

One  day  by  chance  I  overheard  a  discussion  on  these  lines 
between  Jean  and  the  Memsahib.  They  had  drifted  into  it 
casually  through  Jean  speaking  gratefully  of  how  everybody 
at  the  Hedge  strove  to  cast  sunshine  into  her  life.  Not  only 
because  of  the  unsolvable  mystery  enshrouding  her  husband's 
disappearance,  but  because  of  the  unborn  babe,  Jean's  present 
condition  of  mind  was  pessimistic,  morbid,  deepening  the  act- 
ual shadows,  and  feeling  less  of  warmth  from  the  sunshine; 

157 


The  Lone  Furrow 


so  from  a  pleased  recital  of  the  many  little  things  that  were 
always  turning  up  as  helps,  she  passed  into  a  criticism  of  the 
inefficacy  of  that  which  should  have  been  her  real  sustaining 
force  —  Christianity,  or  specifically  the  Church  and  the 
Church  people. 

This  was  particularly  distressing  to  the  Memsahib;  not 
only  on  account  of  her  faith  in  God's  wise  protective  power, 
but  because  of  its  ultimate  evil  effect  upon  Jean's  peace  of 
mind.  So  she  combated  the  morbid  one's  reflections  sturdily. 
I  heard  her  saying  in  a  resolute,  well-modulated  tone:  "  Jean, 
the  very  things  you  speak  of  as  being  helpful,  are  they  not  of 
God's  ordering  too?  Is  He  only  a  Being  of  shadow — does 
He  only  exist  in  the  present  trials  you  have,  and  which  wrill 
pass  away?  Is  not  the  sunshine  His;  the  flowers;  the  beau- 
tiful little  valley  with  its  silver  stream  where  you  were  almost 
happy  the  other  day?  If  we  help  brighten  your  life  here  are 
not  we  of  God's  creation — does  not  He  give  us  the  power 
to  do  the  little  we  have  done?  The  children,  are  not  they  of 
the  Creator's  giving?  And  your  own  baby,  Jean " 

I  saw  the  Memsahib  put  her  hand  upon  Jean's  cheek,  and 
turn  her  face  within  reach  of  a  kiss — "  hasn't  God  been  merci- 
ful and  kind  to  you  to  give  you  something  sweet  to  live  for  ? 
And  when  your  baby  is  in  your  arms  I  know  what  you'll  do, 
Jean;  you'll  just  thank  Him  for  the  gift.  And  that  little 
baby  will  do  for  you  just  what  the  infant  Christ  did  for  the 
world — reconcile  you  to  your  Maker.  That  one  thought 
should  keep  you  safe  from  all  doubts,  make  you  brave  to  stand 
all  that  may  come  to  you  in  your  hour  of  trial." 

What  sophistical  logic  could  stand  against  that  plea?  It 
seemed  to  me  that  the  Memsahib's  wise  purity  of  thought  was 
like  the  undimable  beauty  of  the  Pleiades  in  their  unchange- 

I58 


The   Lone  Furrow 


able  path  across  the  heavens,  beautiful  beyond  count  and  in- 
exorably steadfast,  so  unchangeable.  As  it  is  in  the  book  of 
Job :  "  Canst  thou  bind  the  sweet  influence  of  the  Pleiades,  or 
loose  the  bands  of  Orion?" 

Listening  shed  a  new  light  upon  the  value  of  that  which 
I  had  deemed  but  a  casual  transpiring  of  little  happenings. 
Were  we  all  stars  in  a  firmament  of  destiny  following  out  an 
ordered  routine,  or  was  it  just  the  necromancy  of  Memsahib's 
simple  earnestness  that  gilded  the  trivial  episodes  with  the 
gold  leaf  of  dignified  value? 

In  fact,  I  needed  the  mental  tonic  that  carried  in  her 
words,  almost  as  much  as  did  Jean,  for  I  was  beginning  to 
find  this  forced  absorption  in  the  small  things  of  daily  life 
making  sad  inroads  into  my  power  of,  what  I  was  pleased  to 
call,  real  work.  My  novel  which  Doctor  Monteith  had 
praised  so  valiantly  had,  owing  to  its  comatose  state  in  the 
book  market,  all  but  guillotined  my  prospects.  Publishers — 
caring  little  for  merit,  that  is,  the  merit  which  every  author 
believes  his  work  holds — are  indissolubly  wedded  to  the  mone- 
tary value  of  a  book;  the  public  are  the  sole  arbiters  of  the 
penman's  fate,  unless,  of  course,  he  is  either  so  rich  that  he 
can  continue  his  writing  as  a  pleasurable  exercise,  or  so  poor 
that  he  is  willing  to  die  at  any  time  and  leave  the  books  to 
wait  for  the  generation  they  are  written  for.  Of  course, 
even  then,  it  is  but  an  advanced  section  of  the  omnipotent 
Public. 

But  there,  sitting  by  the  open  window,  surrounded  by  my 
defeated  literary  soldiers,  I  stole  a  portion  of  the  stimulus  of 
bravery  that  Memsahib  was  lavishing,  out  of  her  fullness, 
upon  Jean,  and  formulated  a  heterogeneous  plan.  I  would 
keep  pegging  away  with  the  quill,  and  impress  into  our  mis- 

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The   Lone  Furrow 


sion  of  sustaining  Jean  all  the  episodes  of  distraction  I  could 
lay  hands  upon,  accidental  or  premeditated. 

Thus  alert,  these  wished-for  mind  simples  came  tumul- 
tuously,  and  I  built  a  barricade  of  them  to  wall  out  the 
skeleton. 

One  day  we  made  a  discovery  that,  in  the  spring,  David 
had  planted  Memsahib's  bulbs  upside  down.  Lilies  long  over- 
due are  an  invisible  irritant,  generally  ending  in  a  delve  of  dis- 
covery; and  Memsahib,  who  had  faithfully  watered  the  abid- 
ing place  of  these  sluggish  tubulars,  her  patience  now  ex- 
hausted, solved  the  mystery  with  a  trowel.  There  were  the 
blanched  shoots  of  the  rare  bulbs  patiently  retracing  their 
steps,  after  a  futile  journey  downward  in  search  of  the  home 
of  their  infancy,  China. 

We  all  laughed  —  even  Jean  —  except  Memsahib,  who 
looked  very  reproachfully  at  David. 

David  was  general  handy  man  about  the  village,  consid- 
erably more  of  an  expert  at  spade  work  than  artistic  gar- 
dening. Indeed  his  very  excelling  profession  was  sawing 
wood;  he  held  some  sort  of  a  record  for  this,  having  sawn 
and  split  a  cord  of  wood  in  a  fabulously  short  time  in  a 
competition. 

David  was  present  when  Memsahib  unearthed  the  re- 
versed bulbs  and  seemed  as  much  astonished  and  perplexed  as 
anyone  could  well  be.  He  took  off  his  straw  hat,  rubbed  a 
hand  across  his  wrinkled  brow,  puckered  his  lips,  and  at  first 
could  only  think  of  his  favorite  expression,  "  Well  I'm  gol- 
danged !  if  that  don't  beat  all !  " 

This  suggested  something  else  and  he  added :  "  And  me  so 
careful  wit'  'em,  too.  I  remember  as  well  as  if  'twas  yester- 
day, I  wet  me  thumb  and  rubbed  the  pimply  end  of  that  root 

1 60 


The  Lone  Furrow 


a-lookin'  fer  the  seed  pod."  He  illustrated  this  by  rubbing  his 
chin.  Something  came  of  this  process,  for  he  brightened  up 
with  a  plausible  explanation  of  the  mystery.  "  Well,  I'm 
gol-danged — I  might  a-knowed!  I  don't  like  to  say  nothin' 
about  a  man  in  the  same  line  of  business,  but  I'll  bet  anything 
I  know  the  very  duck  as  turned  'em  roots  over.  I  ain't  men- 
tionin'  no  names  " — and  David  winked  solemnly  at  me — 
"  but  he  done  it  right  'nough.  'Tain't  the  first  dirty  trick  he's 
played  me." 

As  old  Joe  Haney  was  the  only  other  "  man  in  the  same 
line  o'  business,"  we  felt  that  he  stood  convicted.  At  any  rate, 
David  trudged  away  quite  satisfied  that  he  had  turned  his  un- 
fortunate mistake  to  profitable  account,  and  had  put  a  spoke 
in  his  rival's  wheel. 

Some  of  our  household  was  always  having  more  or  less 
business  with  David.  I  think  as  a  rule  the  profit  leaned  his 
way,  while  the  lightsome  pleasure  was  ours. 

His  own  little  garden  fairly  bristled  with  old-fashioned 
flowers,  and  literally,  David  considered  that  a  bloom  would 
smell  as  sweet  by  any  other  name,  for  he  spoke  of  the  nas- 
turtiums as  the  "  excursions,"  poppies — this  was  excusable—- 
were "  puppies,"  and  the  magnolia  tree  that  bloomed  on  my 
premises  caused  him  many  a  rapturous  tribute  to  its  beautiful 
"  regalia  blossoms."  He  always  spoke  of  the  shrubs  as 
"  scrubs  " ;  the  nicotine,  in  spite  of  its  immaculate  purity-sug- 
gesting white  flowers,  to  David  was  "  Nicodemus,"  alyssum 
was  "  Lizzie  'em."  In  fact  he  had  a  wonderful  vocabulary  of 
popular  names. 

David  would  have  made  a  great  political  economist. 
With  the  little  house  he  had  rented  the  land  was  thrown  in  as 
of  no  account.  Having  the  land,  David  borrows  a  horse  from 

161 


The  Lone  Furrow 


one  man,  a  plow  from  another,  and,  lo!  he  has  a  garden. 
Then  he  acquires  seed  potatoes  on  shares. 

This  summer  he  and  Doo-doo  combined  over  a  wondrous 
deal.  David  had  a  clutch  of  bantam  eggs  from  somebody,  to 
hatch  out  on  royalty,  but  no  hen  to  undertake  the  job.  One 
of  my  Plymouth  Rocks,  possessed  of  the  mother  instinct,  had 
made  herself  so  great  a  nuisance,  interfering  with  her  sis- 
ters who  were  keeping  our  table  supplied,  that  she  had 
been  given  two  door  knobs  and  a  glass  egg  in  a  nest  all  by 
herself. 

Her  ready  acceptance  of  these  unfecundible  toys  conveyed 
the  impression  that  Burroughs  is  right,  that  animals  are  not 
as  wise  as  we  think  them. 

I  believe  that  David  had  his  eye  on  this  hen  when  he  ac- 
quired that  clutch  of  tiny  eggs,  for  he  fired  Doo-doo's  im- 
agination with  the  delight  of  having  a  pair  of  "  banties,"  until 
she  borrowed  the  old  hen  from  me,  and  formed  a  partnership 
with  the  gardener. 

If  the  old  hen  had  known  anything  of  ornithology,  I  am 
sure  she  would  have  thought  that  a  cuckoo  had  deceived 
David  and  herself  when  the  brood  of  tiny  chicks  swarmed 
about  her  like  overgrown  sparrows. 

This  deal  fructified  into  a  distraction  for  Lilac  Hedge 
when  David  brought  Doo-doo  her  allotment,  a  chipper  little 
cock  and  a  demure  gray  hen  creature.  But  the  dwellers  in  the 
hen  village,  which  was  the  stable  and  yard,  were  as  cruel  as 
humans;  they  would  none  of  the  small  strangers.  Among 
themselves  the  big  full-bodied  Rocks  picked  at  and  bullied 
each  other,  but  they  all  united  in  aversion  to  the  helpless 
mites.  Instead  of  joy  the  banties  brought  sorrow  and  tears 
to  sympathetic  Doo-doo.  Indeed,  their  condition  was  pitiful; 

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The  Lone  Furrow 


they  were  like  two  child  waifs  thrown  on  the  tender  mercy  of 
a  city.  In  pity  I  built  a  cage  for  them,  and  they  were  in- 
stalled in  a  corner  of  the  veranda,  and  soon  were  as  much  at 
home  as  the  dogs,  or  the  cricket,  the  cage  door  often  left  open 
for  them  to  stretch  their  legs. 

The  rooster  told  us  his  name  was  "  Chuck  " ;  many  times 
a  day  he  repeated  it,  "  Chuck,  chuck,  chuck,  chuck,  chuck!  " 
and  his  wee  brown  wife  would  plaintively  add,  "  I  am  Pee- 
wee,  pee-wee,  pee-wee !  " 

The  day  Chuck  discovered  me  in  my  study — we  had  be- 
come great  friends — he  was  filled  with  joy.  "  Chuck,  chuck! 
here  he  is — here  he  is !  "  he  yelled ;  and  the  wife — she  had 
wandered  far  down  the  dark  cavern  of  the  hall — came  on  the 
run,  crying,  "  Pee-wee,  pee-wee!  " 

I  liked  them,  because  any  little  misdemeanor  was  soon 
put  right,  and  they  told  me  no  temper-trying  stories  of  scan- 
dal, and,  I  knew,  considered  me  quite  as  great  a  man  as  was 
anywhere  in  the  world. 

It  was  something  to  lift  Jean  out  of  a  brooding  fit,  to  call 
her  to  see  Chuck  roosted  on  my  chair,  or,  in  the  evening,  when 
he  should  have  been  in  bed,  bathing  himself  in  the  glow  of  my 
grate  fire. 

She  even  laughed  a  strong  audible  chuckle  at  sight  of 
Chuck  on  one  of  my  knees,  and  Blitz  on  the  other,  the 
terrier  tremendously  jealous.  I  was  really  a  Mountebank, 
a  psychological  juggler,  pitting  little  simples  of  this  order 
against  such  mighty  interests  as  Jean's  heart-trying  be- 
reavement, and  her  floundering  in  the  slough  of  theological 
despond. 

My  idea  was  to  leave  those  two  subjects  alone,  if  I  could, 
believing,  with  the  Memsahib,  that  when  Jean's  baby  came 

163 


The  Lone  Furrow 


we  could  all  give  a  great  sigh  of  relief,  knowing  that  the  wise 
gossips,  and  harsh  fate  had  all  been  confounded. 

The  mystery  over  Neil  would  clear  itself  up  or  not  just 
as  God  decreed.  All  that  could  be  done  in  the  way  of  find- 
ing him  had  been,  and  was  being  done. 


164 


CHAPTER  XI 

I  HEN  I  told  the  Memsahib  of  Bain's  month  of 
grace — just  four  Sabbaths  in  which  the  pulpit 
would  be  held  casual,  she  gave  way  to  a  fit  of 
despair;  the  tears  welled  up,  and  made  violet 
the  blue-gray  of  her  eyes. 
"  I  knew  there  was  something  in  the  air,"  she  said,  "  some- 
thing dreadful,  I   felt  so  blue.     If  it  were  longer — three 
months,  it  wouldn't  matter,  not  in  the  same  way." 

"  What  will  be  the  effect  on  Jean  ?  "  I  asked.  "  Perhaps 
her  revolt  against  the  Church  will  lessen  the  force  of  this 
blow." 

"  It  won't,  I  fear.  She'll  take  it  that  they've  given  up 
hope  of  Neil's  being  alive ;  that's  what  I'm  thinking  of.  And 
it  is  hard  enough  for  her  to  bear  up.  At  any  rate  I  won't 
have  the  Rev.  Grey  coming  to  the  Hedge." 

Alas  for  the  Memsahib's  unwillingness  to  entertain  the 
probationer,  Grey,  he,  meddlesome  as  Bain  had  described  him, 
quite  took  the  matter  out  of  our  hands  by  assuming  the  role 
of  spiritual  consoler  to  the  wife  of  him  he  was  pleased  to 
call  "  his  dear  colleague  in  the  ministry."  In  reality  he  was 
seeking  to  soften  his  own  nest  with  the  down  of  her  quiescent 
acceptance  of  his  Pastorate. 

l65 


The  Lone  Furrow 


It  was  the  day  following  his  first  temporal  occupation  of 
the  pulpit  that  he  called  upon  Jean,  to  impress  upon  her  the 
solace  that  was  to  be  found  in  a  meek  acceptance  of  the  cross 
God  had  put  upon  her. 

Unfortunately  for  his  mission,  Jean  detected  that  he  had 
been  primed  and  was  really  come  to  school  her,  and  for  his 
own  benefit. 

I  think  he  was  a  bigot,  Bain  had  hinted  as  much.  Jean 
knew  as  well  as  we  did  that  she  needed  buoying  up  with  hope. 
I  think  she  would  have  clutched  eagerly  at  even  false  hope. 

"  Tell  me  that  Neil  is  not  dead — say  it  again !  "  That 
was  the  cry  of  her  desolate  heart;  and  when  the  narrow  little 
schemer  talked  of  resignation,  she  gave  him  an  uncomfortable 
quarter  of  an  hour. 

I  didn't  hear  it,  nobody  did,  for  we  had  discreetly  left 
them  alone  in  my  study.  In  fact,  I  rather  fancied  the  rousing 
of  combative  energy  in  Jean  wrould  do  her  good;  the  little 
minister  would  help  her  in  a  way  he  had  not  intended. 

However,  his  face  told  the  story  of  his  non-success,  as  he 
left,  and  the  tails  of  his  black  coat  appeared  to  jerk  anath- 
emas at  the  depraved  people  of  Lilac  Hedge  as  he  stalked 
crossly  up  the  street. 

Jean  had  been  strong  enough  for  the  officious  minister, 
but  when  he  had  gone  inevitable  reaction  cast  her  prone,  face 
buried  in  a  pillow,  where  she  was  found  by  the  Memsahib. 

The  Reverend  Grey  was  still  in  sight  as  the  Agnostic 
came  leisurely  along  under  the  maples,  and  leaned  up  against 
my  gate,  nodding  to  me  pleasantly  as  I  stood  on  the  lawn. 
I  believe  he  had  been  waiting  for  the  departure  of  the  min- 
ister. 

"  Yon  is  a  sample  of  a  man's  serving  two  masters,"  the 
166 


The  Lone  Furrow 


Agnostic  observed ;  "  he's  credited  to  the  Lord,  but  casts  a 
number  of  fish  into  the  Devil's  net,  I'm  thinking." 

"  I  thought  you  didn't  believe  in  the  Devil,"  I  answered. 

"  I  was  speaking  figuratively,"  he  replied.  "  I  mean  that 
busybody  has  a  little  hell  of  his  own  that  he  draws  people  into. 
And  the  worst  of  it  is,  I  believe  he's  kind  of  honest  in  it ;  he's 
built  in  proportion — his  soul,  and  his  heart,  and  his  mind  are 
cast  in  a  small  mold,  like  himself.  He  shoves  his  religion 
down  people's  throats,  and  if  they  don't  swallow  it  he  thumps 
them  on  the  back.  I've  seen  more  than  one  man,  half-stran- 
gled by  his  dose  of  threatened  God's  anger,  spew  it  up  again, 
and  swear  he'd  rather  have  the  disease  than  the  cure.  He'll 
suit  some  of  them  here  fine,  though.  He's  a  grand  hand  at 
church  dogmas ;  and  he'll  give  them  long  sermons.  He's  fond 
of  the  rattle  of  his  own  tin-pan  voice." 

"  He  has  been  saying  a  few  words  to  Mrs.  Munro,"  I  re- 
marked. 

"  Well,  I  hope  he  had  the  good  sense  to  try  to  brighten 
her  up  a  bit,  but  it's  almost  certain  he  didn't." 

"  Say,  Doctor,  the  Major  here's  got  yon  little  man  down 
pretty  fine." 

I  turned  half  crossly  at  Sweeny's  words.  The  teamster 
had  been  putting  in  a  load  of  coal,  and  coming  with  the  bill, 
had  evidently  stood  behind  my  back  listening  to  the  Agnos- 
tic's remarks. 

But  the  twinkle  in  Sweeny's  blue  Irish  eyes  was  always 
sufficient  to  disarm  resentment  with  me. 

"  Oh,  I  know  you  Reverend  duck  purty  well,"  Sweeny 
added,  seeing  himself  unchecked ;  "  the  Major's  ticked  him  off 
to  a  turn.  It  was  him  made  all  the  trouble  down  to  Plymp- 
ton  tryin'  to  bury  a  man  afore  he  was  dead." 

167 


The  Lone  Furrow 


"  That's  a  grewsome  subject  for  a  joke,  Sweeny,"  I  re- 
monstrated. 

"  I  tell  you,  b'ys,  it's  no  joke,  it's  the  God's  truth.  I 
was  there  mesilf  at  the  time.  Jack  Cavanagh  that  kept  the 
tavern  at  Kelly's  Corners  eight  miles  beyond  Plympton,  got 
hurted  wit'  a  runaway  team,  an'  he  was  purty  bad.  A  man 
comes  up  to  the  Corners  from  Plympton  Saturday  mornin'  an' 
says  Jack  ain't  got  an  hour  to  live. 

"  Minister  Grey — Man  alive!  you  couldn't  have  a  litter 
of  pups  born  in  Plympton  but  he'd  know  of  it — he  gets  to 
hear  that  Cavanagh  is  dyin'.  Then  he  gets  frettin'  fer  fear 
the  Sabbath'd  be  desecrated  by  diggin'  a  grave  Sunday  if  they 
waited  to  hear  final  from  Kelly's  Corners.  You  see,  b'ys, 
Cavanagh'd  have  to  be  tuk  up  to  Plympton  fer  plantin'.  So 
the  Minister  tells  old  man  Woolly  that's  in  charge  of  the 
buryin'  ground,  to  dig  a  grave  fer  Cavanagh;  an'  Woolly, 
thinkin'  Cavanagh  is  dead,  tells  everybody.  You  see  it  was 
terrible  hot  weather,  fierce !  I  'member  I  was  hauling  gravel 
on  the  Town  line,  an'  the  horses'd  sweat  standing  still  till 
there'd  be  little  puddles  of  water  at  their  feet.  Well,  that's 
what  their  hurry  was  about,  he'd  have  to  be  buried  Sunday. 
So  all  his  friends  in  Plympton — an'  he  had  a  swarm  of  'em — 
passes  the  word,  an'  goes  off  down  to  Kelly's  Corners  fer 
the  funeral.  I'm  not  sure,  but  I  think  the  undertaker  got 
word  an'  went.  Anyway — to  make  a  long  story  short,  there 
was  Cavanagh  sittin'  up  in  bed  takin'  nourishment,  just 
cheatin'  the  hole  in  the  ground  they  dug  fer  him.  An'  he  got 
all  right,  too.  Snakes!  but  there  was  a  row  about  that,  and 
no  mistake !  " 

Laughing  at  the  success  of  his  story,  the  teamster  made  off ; 
a  few  minutes  later  the  Agnostic  followed  him. 

168 


The  Lone  Furrow 


Making  all  allowance  for  the  Agnostic's  cynical  overrat- 
ing of  professing  Christians'  uncharitableness,  I  felt  that  his 
summing  up  of  Grey's  character  had  been  true  in  the  main, 
and  that  the  latter's  advent  would  not  lessen  the  mischievous 
scandals. 

These  thoughts  were  painfully  confirmed  the  next  even- 
ing. 

Miss  Harkett  whisked  in  to  us  at  the  Hedge,  her  beautiful 
wavy  gray  hair  vibrating  with  electrical  disturbance. 

"  My,  my !  "  whispered  the  Memsahib  to  me,  "  Teacher 
is  excited;  something  has  happened;  it  puts  me  all  on  edge 
when  she  comes  in  that  state." 

"  And  Jean  will  absorb  telepathically  this  nervous  de- 
moralization," I  whispered  back.  "  Hurry  up,  capture 
Teacher;  rush  her  into  my  study,  and  let  her  unload  the  ter- 
rible something." 

Miss  Harkett  had  stopped  to  shake  hands  with  Jean.  I 
heard  her  saying  something,  and  she  appeared  nervous  and 
excited. 

"  For  Heaven's  sake !  grab  her  before  she  lets  the  cat  out 
of  the  bag,"  I  muttered. 

"  Are  you  going  in,  Mrs.  Cameron  ?  "  Teacher  said  as 
Memsahib  rose. 

"  Yes,  will  you  come  too?  we'll  talk  about  that  hymn." 

They  disappeared  through  the  door.  I  could  hear  the 
drone  of  their  voices  in  my  room,  and  presently  the  Memsahib 
called,  asking  where  I  had  put  the  matches,  she  wanted  a 
light. 

"Brilliant  idea!"  I  whispered  to  myself,  "with  match 
safes  all  over  the  house."  I  went  in,  knowing  that  I  was 
wanted. 

12  169 


The  Lone  Furrow 


"  Close  the  door,  please,"  Memsahib  commanded. 
"  What  do  you  suppose  has  happened  now  ? "  she  asked 
next. 

"  The  Kirk's  gone  over  to  Rome,"  I  answered.  I  knew 
that  only  Church  matters  agitated  little  Teacher  to  the  edge 
of  collapse. 

"  They're  saying  that  Jean  is  an  atheist." 

"  Indeed  they  are,"  Teacher  confirmed. 

"Who  are  they!" 

"  The  Sewing  Circle  Set,"  Memsahib  answered. 

"  But,  my  dear  girl,  that's  what  they  meet  for — to  crucify 
somebody,  isn't  it?  The  last  victim  was  that  poor  girl  whom 
they  drove  out  of  town  until  she  really  did  go  wrong.  You 
know  who  I  mean — Miss — Miss " 

"  This  is  worse,"  the  Memsahib  interrupted  me. 

"  Of  course,  it's  worse  to  us — it  comes  nearer  home." 

"  Miss  Harkett  was  there  and  heard  them,  so  there's  no 
mistake  about  it,"  Memsahib  declared. 

"  It  was  just  dreadful!  "  wailed  little  Teacher.  "  Mrs. 
MacFarlane  declared  Jean  was  like  Peter,  that  she  denied  the 
Lord — and  to  Minister  Grey's  own  face." 

"  So  much  the  worse  for  Grey — it's  his  fault,"  I  com- 
mented. 

"  And  Mrs.  McRae  said  that  she  was  learning  pagan 
signs  and  things  from  the  Agnostic.  And  Mrs.  MacMillan 
said  that  Malcolm  Bain  was  always  about  her,  and  that  she 
was  putting  him  up  to  making  trouble  in  the  Church." 

"  You  mean  Widow  MacMillan,"  I  said — "  she  set  her 
cap  for  Bain,  and  worried  the  poor  man's  life  so  that  I  was 
afraid  he'd  have  to  marry  her  or  leave  the  country.  It's  just 
jealousy  with  her." 

170 


The  Lone  Furrow 


"  Grandma  Murdock  settled  them,"  cried  the  Memsahib 
gleefully. 

"Indeed  she  did  —  the  dear  old  body!"  confirmed 
Teacher. 

"Good  for  Grandma!  How  did  she  shut  them  up — she 
must  have  called  out  the  hose  reel." 

"  When  Mrs.  MacFarlane  said  that  Jean  denied  the 
Lord,  Grandma  turned  on  her — My!  she  is  such  a  gentle  old 
body  I  could  hardly  believe  my  ears  when  I  heard  it — she  told 
Mrs.  MacFarlane  she  ought  to  be  ashamed  to  say  such  a 
thing — that  Jean  was  a  good  woman,  a  better  Christian  than 
many  of  those  that  prayed  long  and  loud  in  public." 

"  How  do  you  know  that?  "  snapped  Widow  MacMillan. 

'  Yes,  how  do  you  know  Jean  Munro's  a  God-fearing 

woman,'  asked  Mrs.  MacRae ;  '  she's  that  proud  she'll  speak 

to  nobody,  cutting  her  betters.    Does  she  confide  in  you,  Mrs. 

Murdock?' 

1 '  She  does  with  her  troubles  what  you  ought  to  do,  she 
takes  them  to  the  Lord  and  not  to  the  town  pump ;  and  not 
when  people  are  looking  to  say  how  holy  she  is,  either.'  " 

"  Good  for  Grandma — splendid !  "  I  exclaimed  enthusias- 
tically. 

"  You  should  have  seen  the  vindictive  look  on  Mrs.  Mac- 
Rae's  face,  for  it  was  a  home  thrust,"  said  Teacher. 

"  '  And  how  do  you  know  that  Mrs.  Munro  takes  her 
trouble  to  the  Lord  in  prayer  if  there's  no  one  to  see  her  do  it, 
Mrs.  Murdock?'  sneered  Mrs.  MacMillan;  and  the  others 
laughed  spitefully,  thinking  they  had  her  trapped. 

"  '  I'll  tell  you  how  I  know,'  went  on  Grandma;  '  it  is  a 
sacred  private  thing,  but  thank  goodness  you  can't  make  scan- 
dal of  it  if  I  do  tell  you.  Mrs.  Munro's  bedroom  at  the  Hedge 

171 


The  Lone  Furrow 


faces  my  kitchen,  and  often  when  I'm  busy  there  at  night  I  can 
see  her  against  the  blind.  And  if  you'll  just  clean  your  minds 
while  I  tell  it,  'cause  it's  a  sacred  thing,  I've  seen  her  shadow 
as  she  knelt  beside  her  bed  in  prayer.  Not  a  dip  down  and  up 
again,  but  as  long  as  some  of  you  bow  your  heads  in  church. 
Now,  tell  me,  would  an  atheist  do  that — or  one  that  denied 
the  Lord?'" 

"  Good  for  Grandma!  "  I  reiterated,  my  heart  just  warm 
for  the  faithful  old  body. 

"  They  hadn't  a  word  to  say,"  added  Teacher.  "  But 
Widow  MacMillan — she's  spiteful — wouldn't  let  up  about 
the  other  matter.  She  said :  '  It's  common  talk  that  Neil 
Munro  was  jealous  of  Malcolm  Bain — and  I  don't  wonder 
at  it.' " 

"  I'll  bet  Grandma  scored  them  over  that,  too,  didn't 
she?  "  I  was  eager  to  know. 

"  Mrs.  Murdock  turned  on  the  Widow  like  a  flash  and 
said :  '  You  ought  to  be  ashamed !  You  had  a  good  man 
yourself,  and  you're  a  mother,  and  I'll  tell  you  something  else 
to  still  your  nasty  tongues '  " 

Miss  Harkett  stopped  abruptly,  and  looked  hopelessly  at 
Memsahib. 

"  What  did  she  say — "  I  began,  with  great  stupidity;  but 
the  Memsahib  frowned  at  me,  and  I  stepped  over  to  turn 
down  the  lamp  a  little — it  was  smoking.  "  By  Jove !  "  I 
said,  "  it's  a  wonder  the  chimney  didn't  break." 

This  diversion  gave  little  Teacher  a  chance ;  she  was  quite 
flustered.  I  turned  from  the  lamp,  that  was  really  all  right, 
and  walked  out  on  the  lawn. 


172 


CHAPTER   XII 


HAD  seen  nothing  of  Robert  Craig  for  three 
days ;  in  fact,  I  had  thought  little  of  this,  for 
on  two  or  three  occasions  during  the  past 
month  he  had  suddenly  disappeared  from 
lona  for  a  couple  of  days.  I  had  taken  a 
pessimistic  view  of  these  physical  elisions,  surmising  that 
they  were  drinking  bouts  in  York,  for  the  poor  boy  appeared 
utterly  incapable  of  restraint. 

It  was  about  ten  o'clock  on  the  morning  following  the 
visit  of  Miss  Harkett  that  Malcolm  Bain  came  to  the  Hedge, 
and  I  could  see  from  his  affected  casuality  of  manner  that 
there  was  something  in  the  wind. 

Jean  was  in  the  hammock,  and  the  Memsahib  had  the  ver- 
anda looking  like  an  auctioneer's  mart  with  rugs  and  chairs, 
while  the  open  door  and  the  swish  of  an  active  broom  within 
proclaimed  that  it  was  sweeping  day. 

"  I  came  to  tell  you  that  you've  been  appointed  a  delegate 
jointly  with  me  to  represent  the  society  at  York,"  Bain  said 
presently,  and  from  the  pitch  of  his  voice,  which  was  usually 
low,  I  knew  that  this  was  meant  more  for  Jean's  ears  than 
for  mine.  As  I  belonged  to  no  secret  society  I  was  naturally 
fuddled  over  Bain's  enigmatical  message.  Luckily  I  caught  his 

173 


The  Lone  Furrow 


eye,  and  there  a  ponderous  wink  promptly  initiated  me  into 
whichever  order  he  had  pitched  upon  as  an  excuse  for  carry- 
ing me  off  to  York. 

"  That's  really  too  bad,"  I  objected,  falling  in  with  his 
humor;  "I'm  busy." 

"  Oh,  it'll  not  take  you  away  for  long,"  he  replied  cheer- 
fully; "we'll  be  back  to-morrow." 

"  When  do  we  start?  "  I  asked. 

"At  noon." 

"  Well,  I  suppose  I  must  go,"  I  said  resignedly;  "  I'll  tell 
the  Memsahib.  Won't  you  come  into  my  study,  Bain?  I'd 
like  to  get  a  line  on  what  I'm  to  do  at  the  meeting." 

"  Now  what  is  it?  "  I  asked  when  we  were  beyond  Jean's 
hearing. 

Bain  handed  me  a  telegram.  It  had  been  sent  from  Buf- 
falo by  Robert,  and  read : 

"  Come  at  once ;  found." 

"Minister?"    I  said  inquiringly. 

"Yes;  or  Robert  has  been  soaking  in  the  accursed  drink 
till  he's  fair  daft.  Will  you  go,  Doctor?  " 

We  were  in  Buffalo  that  same  night  at  nine  o'clock,  and 
back  in  lona  the  next  afternoon.  Just  one  more  frowsed 
thread  pulled  from  the  tangled  woof  of  Mystery.  Nothing 
definite — nothing  but  a  battered  water-logged  body,  all  that 
remained  of  some  man  in  whose  pocket  had  been  found  a  pulpy 
card  with  the  name  "  Munro  "  upon  it.  There  was  a  flushed, 
heavy-eyed  boy,  Robert,  who  insisted  that  the  dead  man  was 
Neil.  But  the  trail  down  which  the  now  dead  had  glided, 
traced  back  by  the  sleuths,  led  not  to  the  shadow  of  any  kirk, 
but  to  the  Devil's  playground,  and  I  wondered  that  Robert 
did  not  hold  this  as  proof  that  the  dead  man  could  not  be  Neil. 

174 


The  Lone  Furrow 


"  It  is  impossible  that  the  horrible  thing  we  saw  was  Min- 
ister," I  said  to  Bain ;  "  it  is  too  indefinite — too  unsolvable 
for  us  to  even  mention  it ;  we  must  hold  that  Neil  is  alive  un- 
til there  is  no  doubt  over  his  death ;  we  must  swear  to  secrecy 
about  this  foolish  find  of  Robert's — he's  just  queer  with  so 
much  dissipation,  and  fancies  things.  If  we  were  but  to  men- 
tion the  card  on  that  body  in  lona,  rumor  would  write  it  that 
we  had  been  with  Neil  in  his  last  moments — that  we  had 
buried  him.  Think  what  a  terrible  thing  it  would  be  if  he 
were  to  come  back  alive  after  that — it  would  be  like  Eugene 
Aram." 

A  troubled  look  in  Bain's  face  startled  me  into  a  recog- 
nition of  what  import  might  be  put  upon  my  words. 

"  There  are  so  many  cases  where  men  have  been  reported 
dead  and  have  come  back,"  I  added  hastily,  "  and  it  would  be 
such  a  terrible  blow  to  Jean,  all  the  more  vicious  if  it  were  un- 
true." 

Journeying  back  to  lona  my  mind  had  recurred  over  and 
over  again  to  Robert's  peculiar  actions  the  day  we  visited  the 
manse.  This  unpleasant  feeling  had  almost  died  out,  but 
now  it  broke  forth  again  distractingly.  I  determined  to  con- 
fide in  Malcolm — indeed,  perhaps  I  should  have  done  so  be- 
fore, for  with  him,  whatever  there  was  of  a  secret  in  it  would 
be  as  inviolate  as  with  myself.  So  I  related  all  the  circum- 
stances of  Robert's  peculiar  actions  that  day.  Put  into  words 
it  really  sounded  very  little,  nothing  at  all  as  it  impressed 
me,  augmented  by  hardly  shaped  suspicions. 

"We'd  better  have  another  look  through  the  manse," 
Bain  said  practically.  "  I  expect  that  Robert  was  just  a  bit 
flighty.  When  a  man's  pretty  well  soaked  in  alcohol  his  mind 
is  like  a  rain  cloud,  just  drives  here  and  there,  whichever  way 

175 


The  Lone  Furrow 


the  wind  blows.  To  tell  you  the  truth,"  he  continued,  "  this 
hunt  for  Minister  has  been  carried  on  in  the  wrong  way 
from  the  start;  there  was  never  any  system  pursued — too 
many  cooks  spoiling  the  broth;  and  at  first  no  cooks  at  all 
just,  for  Mrs.  Munro,  naturally  enough,  not  thinking  that 
her  husband  was  gone  for  good,  said  nothing  for  a  day.  Then 
came  the  reports  that  he'd  been  seen  going  away  on  the 
train.  These  were  believed  till  they  were  found  out  to  be 
false.  I  think  myself  that  he  did  go  away,  but  there's  no 
proof.  And  the  absence  of  proof  in  this  direction  is  con- 
fusing. How  could  a  man,  well  known,  like  Munro,  get 
away  without  somebody  seeing  him  ?  It  seems  impossible.  We 
did  search  the  country  hereabouts,  but  we  were  late  starting, 
and  at  that  it  was  more  a  matter  of  form,  for  we  all  thought 
that  he  was  away  and  would  turn  up  at  some  place,  or  come 
back." 

"  Is  there  another  key  to  the  manse?  "  I  asked  Bain.  "  It 
might  disquiet  Jean  if  we  went  to  her  for  the  key." 

"Yes,  MacKay  has  one  in  charge;  I'll  get  it." 

When  we  returned  home  I  ran  the  gantlet  of  a  severe 
trial.  Before  I  had  a  chance  to  tell  the  Memsahib  the  real 
business  we  were  away  upon,  she,  abetted  by  Jean,  put  me 
through  a  jocose  catechism  about  the  meeting  of  the  secret 
society  I  was  supposed  to  have  attended.  This  illustrated 
absolutely  the  constant  overlapping  of  the  tragic  and  the 
comic  in  our  lives;  the  heavy  heart  behind  the  mask  of  smiling 
lips,  the  laugh  that  smothered  a  sigh. 

Bain  and  I  went  together  to  MacKay,  and  in  answer  to 
Malcolm's  request,  Donald  said:  "  Yes,  I've  got  a  key  o'  the 
manse." 

After  a  search  in  his  desk  he  added  petulantly :  "  I  wonder 
176 


The  Lone  Furrow 


if  that  careless  young  deevil  brought  it  back,  it  doesna'  appear 
to  be  whaur  it  belongs,  i'  yon  pigeonhole.  I'm  vera  particu- 
lar over  Church  property;  a  man  should  no  trifle  wi'  the 
Lord's  belongings,  and  I  wish  others  would  just  think  the 
same." 

MacKay  was  angry  now.  He  tossed  papers  about — he 
even  searched  his  pockets.  I  saw  him  looking  in  the  stamp 
box.  This  was  characteristic  of  MacKay;  when  excited  he 
added  to  the  trouble  in  hand  by  worry. 

"  Man  alive!  "  he  exclaimed  as  we  waited  patiently.  "  It's 
like  when  I  used  to  lend  my  trout-rod;  I'd  no'  come  by  it 
again  till  I  went  after  it." 

"Who  had  the  key?"  Malcolm  asked,  as  MacKay, 
utterly  nonplussed,  stood  in  front  of  us,  hands  thrust  deep  in 
his  trousers  pockets,  and  face  puckered  with  angry  disgust. 

"  Who  had  it — let  me  see?  I  wonder  if  I  left  it  home,  I 
wonder  if  he  brought  it  to  the  house."  Malcolm's  question 
had  been  driven,  half-answered,  from  the  Scot's  mind  by  his 
perturbation  over  the  missing  article. 

"Who  had  the  key  from  you?"  Malcolm  repeated  stol- 
idly. 

"Who  had  it? — that's  what  I'm  asking  mysel'.  Who 
was  it  now?  Was  it  Minister  Grey? — No.  Did  you  get  it 
yourself  f rae  me,  Malcolm  ?  " 

"  Indeed  I  didn't!  I'd  have  returned  it  if  I  had." 

"  Of  course  you  would,  man;  you're  vera  particular,  Bain, 
I  might  ha'e  known  that.  It  would  be  just  such  a  reckless, 
godless  lot  as  yon  Robert  Craig  that  would  ha'e  just  treated 
the  key  o'  the  manse — to  the  residence  of  God's  minister, 
like  he  would  an  empty  beer  bottle,  to  be  thrown  away  when 
done  for." 

177 


The  Lone  Furrow 


"  Was  it  Robert  got  the  key  ?  "  Malcolm  queried  impa- 
tiently. 

"  Aye,  the  very  man !  you've  said  it,  Malcolm !  " 

Bain  and  I  glanced  at  each  other.  I  suppose  there  was 
a  startled  look  in  my  eyes,  there  certainly  was  an  enigmatical 
expression  in  his. 

"  Why  didn't  you  say  so  before,  man  ?  "  he  asked  MacKay. 

"  Aye,  just  that;  it  fair  slipped  my  mind,  bothered  by  the 
loss  o'  the  key.  I  remember  vera  well  when  he  brought  it 
back " 

"  He  did  bring  it  back  then  ?  "  Malcolm  asked. 

"  Aye;  at  least  I'm  thinkin'  he  did.  I  remember  putting 
it  down  here  where  I  stamp  the  letters — I  was  just  closing 
the  mail  for  Kintyre,  and  was  in  a  hurry — and  where  is  it 
now?  that's  what  I'd  like  to  ken." 

"  It  might  have  got  shoved  in  there  under  the  pads,  be- 
hind the  shelf,"  Malcolm  advised ;  "  look  there,  MacKay." 

The  pads  were  brushed  to  one  side,  some  of  them  clatter- 
ing to  the  floor;  letters  and  papers  were  swirled  into  a  whirl- 
wind, and  then,  with  a  yell  of  triumph,  MacKay  dragged 
forth  the  big  brass  key,  adding  complacently:  "I  knew  it 
couldna  be  lost ;  I'm  vera  particular  about  Church  property ; 
everyone  should  be.  Here  it  is,  Malcolm.  Be  sure  and 
bring  it  back.  And  yon  careless  de'il'll  no  get  it  again, 
I  promise  you  that.  All  this  worry  just  because  when  you 
lend  a  man  a  thing  he  thinks  you  ha'e  no  further  use 
for  it." 

"I  wonder  what  Robert  was  needing  the  key  for?"  I 
said,  as  we  walked  to  the  manse. 

"  Most  likely  it  was  to  get  something  for  his  sister,"  Bain 
answered. 

I78 


The  Lone  Furrow 


"  In  that  case  she  would  have  given  him  her  own  key," 
I  reasoned.  "  I  don't  like  it  at  all.  The  boy  is  certainly 
hiding  something  in  his  mind." 

"  He  hid  something  in  his  pocket,  you  say,  Doctor." 

"  Yes;  what  was  that — what  do  you  suppose  that  could 
have  been,  Malcolm?" 

"  I  don't  know.  It  may  have  been  some  compromising 
letter,  some  kindly  disposed  woman  might  have  written  to 
Munro  about  Robert." 

There  was  a  certain  plausibility  in  Malcolm's  suggestion, 
but  somehow  it  had  not  the  slightest  validity  with  me.  I  had 
an  intuitive  feeling  that  whatever  it  was  Robert  had  taken, 
it  had  to  do  with  Munro's  disappearance.  I  knew  absolutely, 
it  was  like  an  inspiration,  that  soon  or  late  I  should  find  this 
true. 

We  went  at  once  to  the  study.  I  led  the  way  with  fever- 
ish haste,  dreading  I  knew  not  what.  There  would  be  some 
new  evidence  there,  some  change.  Robert  would  not  have 
gone  there  out  of  idle  curiosity. 

I  searched  the  room  like  a  detective,  Bain  contenting  him- 
self with  a  chair,  saying,  "  I'll  just  wait,  Doctor!  I've  not 
been  here  before." 

I  noticed  that  Neil's  gloves  were  gone  from  where  I  had 
placed  them  on  the  desk;  a  smoking  jacket  that  had  hung  on 
the  door  of  a  little  closet  was  not  there.  On  an  open  shelf, 
and  attached  to  the  wall,  there  was  a  collection  of  Indian 
curios  which  Munro  had  brought  from  that  country.  A 
brass  prayer  wheel  from  Thibet,  with  its  enclosed  long  scroll 
of  prayers  printed  in  red  ink,  still  lay  upon  the  open  shelf; 
but  beside  it  was  a  blank  space  from  which  something  had 
been  taken.  I  remembered  well  that  at  the  time  of  my  former 

179 


The  Lone  Furrow 


visit  this  little  shelf  had  been  quite  full.  I  tried  to  remember 
what  had  lain  there.  I  ran  over  in  my  mind  the  odd  Indian 
trinkets  I  had  made  a  mental  note  of.  An  Afghan  knife,  with 
a  jade  handle,  was  certainly  missing  from  where  it  had  rested 
on  two  nails  driven  into  the  wall  just  above  the  prayer  wheel. 
I  had  examined  its  long  tapering  point,  sharp  as  a  lance,  and 
had  said  something  of  its  vicious  look  to  Robert  the  day  we 
had  been  there  together. 

"  What  are  you  looking  for,  Doctor?  "  Bain  asked  pres- 
ently. 

"  I'm  trying  to  think  what  was  on  this  shelf — it's  gone." 

"What's  the  difference?"  he  commented;  "perhaps  a 
trinket  of  just  no  value  that  Robert  took  a  notion  to.  There's 
something  on  the  floor  by  your  foot,"  he  added  in  the  same 
breath — "  what's  that?  " 

I  picked  the  object  up.  It  was  a  small  mouthpiece,  fash- 
ioned from  a  bird's  wing-bone  evidently. 

"  It's  like  the  reed  of  a  bagpipe,"  Malcolm  said,  "  but 
most  like  it's  the  stem  of  a  tobacco  pipe." 

"  I  think  it  is,"  I  answered,  "  and  I'm  sure  there  was  a 
small  Indian  pipe  here  on  the  shelf." 

"  Well,  I  think  we're  wasting  time,"  Malcolm  said.  "  I 
suppose  Robert  took  those  things.  Neil  may  have  given  them 
to  him." 

"  There's  been  a  fire  in  the  grate  since  I  was  here,"  I 
commented,  poking  in  the  ashes. 

"  Perhaps  there  were  more  letters  that  Robert  wished  to 
destroy." 

"  But  why  did  he  burn  the  gloves  and  the  coat?  "  I  re- 
torted, showing  a  leather  thumb  and  some  buttons.  I  darted 
to  the  desk  with  something  else  in  my  hand.  "  And  even 

1 80 


The  Lone  Furrow 


Munro's  pens,  they're  gone.  Here  are  nibs  I  fished  out  of  the 
ashes." 

"  Why  should  the  boy  burn  those,"  Malcolm  queried. 
"  It's  mighty  strange." 

"  It  has  something  to  do  with  that  peculiar  odor  I 
told  you  about,  Malcolm." 

"  It's  strange,"  Bain  said  solemnly.  "  That  black-faced 
wooden  god,  with  the  many  arms,  grinning  on  the  shelf  gives 
me  a  creepy  feeling." 

"  That's  Kali,  the  Goddess  of  Cholera,  the  evil  consort 
of  Siva  the  Destroyer,"  I  explained.  "  And  this  mystery  that 
hangs  over  Neil's  fate  is  just  like  her  devilish  reputation." 

"  I  don't  like  these  pagan  things;  they're  like  false  gods," 
Malcolm  declared  with  a  grimace  of  disgust.  "  I  suppose  it 
was  these  queer  implements  of  darkness  that  stirred  the  im- 
agination of  Maggie,  Jean's  servant,  for  she  spread  some 
strange  yarns  about  Munro — it  wouldn't  take  much  cloth  to 
make  an  overcoat  of  scandal  in  lona,  though;  half  an  egg 
shell,  and  there's  a  mare's  nest  with  three  dozen  eggs  in." 

"What  was  Maggie's  story — I  never  heard  of  that?" 

"  I  just  came  by  snatches  of  it,  a  word  here  and  a  word 
there — that  Neil  used  to  shut  himself  up  for  a  whole  day  or 
longer,  and  the  girl  thought  he  was  making  magic." 

"  I  suppose  he  was  studying,"  I  said ;  "  he  was  a  great 
student." 

"  Likely  taking  refuge  in  his  Bible,  and  praying  for 
strength  to  bend  the  necks  of  the  Philistines  to  the  yoke.  It 
was  here  that  Neil  and  Robert  had  the  quarrel  the  night 
before  Minister  walked  out  into  the  great  silence." 

"  What  did  they  quarrel  about,  Malcolm  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know — nobody  knows.  I  suppose  Robert  must 
181 


The  Lone  Furrow 


have  come  to  Neil  drunken ;  perhaps  Minister  upbraided  him 
for  it.  It  was  Maggie  who  told  of  the  row.  At  any  rate, 
Robert  was  drinking  heavily  the  day  Minister  disappeared, 
and  he  had  been  free  from  the  accursed  thing  for  months  be- 
fore." 

"  I  am  sure  that  Robert  was  the  cause  of  Neil's  going,"  I 
said.  "  I  wouldn't  utter  this  thought  to  anyone  but  yourself, 
Bain.  We'll  just  keep  silence  over  this  suspicion.  If  it  were 
whispered  through  the  village  I  believe  it  would  kill  Jean  in 
her  present  condition." 

"  Yes,  her  mind  is  sore  troubled ;  she's  swimming  in  a  sea 
of  calamity.  Just  a  false  report  that  her  brother  was  sus- 
pected of  anything  might  put  her  out  of  her  mind." 

"  It  isn't  the  mind  alone,  Malcolm." 

Nothing  but  love  could  have  flashed  the  look  of  tender 
concern  from  the  Scot's  strong  eyes. 

"  Jean  expects  to  become  a  mother,"  I  answered. 

If  I  had  been  a  black-capped  judge  passing  sentence  of 
death  upon  Bain,  if  I  had  been  an  elder  rising  in  church  to 
denounce  him  as  a  heretic,  my  words  could  not  have  wrought 
a  greater  change  in  his  countenance.  Bain's  strong  features 
writhed  in  a  struggle  with  tremendous  emotion — his  face 
darkened  till  his  eyes  became  lurid  in  wrath.  For  a  full 
minute  I  watched  him  in  the  play  of  this  fierce  emotion. 

"  The  hound !  the  miserable  cowardly  hound !  " 

I  understood.  Malcolm's  passion  became  beatified.  I 
had  almost  misunderstood  it.  It  was  concern  intensified  by 
the  knowledge  that  a  man  could  have  deserted  Jean  at  that 
time  of  all  others. 

"  Yes,  Malcolm,"  I  said,  speaking  at  last,  "  you're  justified 
in  your  execration,  if  the  husband,  rational,  sane,  went  away 

182 


The  Lone  Furrow 


giving  no  sign.  But  to  my  mind  this  proves  one  of  two 
things;  he  was  either  insane  through  overwork — physically 
broken  to  mental  distraction,  or  else  he  is  dead " 

"  My  God!  the  poor  girl!  If  the  people  who  know  this 
say  slanderous  things  of  her  they  must  be  devils  incarnate. 
Thank  God,  Doctor,  I'm  strong  enough  to  stand  up  for  her, 
and  blest  with  enough  to  see  that  neither  she  nor  the  little 
one  ever  wants.  I  never  valued  the  money  I  came  by  much 
till  now.  I'll  tell  you,  Doctor  " — Bain  came  over  beside  me 
and  laid  his  hand  on  my  shoulder — "  I  can  trust  you,  man, 
and  I'd  like  to  say  what's  in  my  heart  for  just  once;  it  seems 
a  fitting  time.  It's  good  for  a  man  to  let  out  the  truth  when 
it  can  do  no  harm,  and  when  it  will  be  heard  in  trust.  I  tell 
you  I  cursed  the  money.  I  worshiped  Jean  Craig,  and  I 
thought  that  perhaps  she  loved  me  better  than  others.  I 
never  spoke  outright  to  her,  I  was  afraid ;  I  knew  she  was  too 
good  for  me.  Once  or  twice  I  was  on  the  point  of  speaking, 
to  chance  my  hopes,  but  something  in  her  manner  told  me 
that  I  should  fail.  I  was  a  coward — I  was  afraid ;  I  came  to 
think  that  it  was  the  money  stood  between  us,  that  Jean 
thought  it  was  just  a  home  with  plenty  I  had  to  offer;  and 
not  a  man's  love.  I  couldn't  word  my  thoughts  in  her  pres- 
ence, I  was  just  a  blundering  man,  rough  of  speech.  Un- 
fortunately I  spoke  of  it  once  that  way,  about  taking  care  of 
her,  I  never  could  put  it  right,  even  with  myself.  I'm  awk- 
ward at  all  times,  but  with  Jean  I  was  like  a  man  drunk. 

"  She  was  always  proud — her  father  and  her  mother  be- 
fore her  were  that — and  I  couldn't  explain  that  it  was  love 
and  not  pity.  I  know  it  was  just  because  I  was  her  father's 
friend,  almost  his  only  friend  at  the  finish,  that  Jean  thought 
I  had  taken  upon  myself  to  look  after  her  future.  Now  I  can 

183 


The  Lone  Furrow 


be  just  what  she  thought  I  was — her  father's  friend — and 
I'm  satisfied.  My!  my!  little  Jean  a  mother — won't  that  be 
beautiful!  It  will  be  a  blessing  straight  from  God." 

Bain  had  gradually  passed  from  fierce  passion  to  earnest- 
ness, and  now  to  a  sweet  tenderness  of  thought  like  a 
woman's.  I  gazed  with  rapture  upon  the  great  human  giant 
with  his  fine  sensibility.  A  knight  he  was  in  his  chivalry. 

"  A  curious  place  we  happened  upon  for  this  talk,"  Bain 
said  simply,  and,  as  I  thought,  as  apology  to  the  absent  hus- 
band. 

"  It  might  have  all  been  said  with  Munro  present,"  I  an- 
swered. 

"  Aye,  perhaps!  But  you've  finished  your  look-about,  Doc- 
tor?" 

A  thought  struck  me  and  I  slid  open  the  drawer  that 
Robert  had  forced  the  lock  of,  saying:  "  I  first  got  that  odor 
I  spoke  of  here — the  drawer  reeked  of  it.  That's  curious," 
I  continued,  "  some  one  has  stripped  this." 

I  pulled  the  drawer  away  from  the  desk  and  held  it  to  my 
nostrils;  there  was  still  a  faint  nauseating  odor  clinging  to 
its  wood.  I  passed  it  to  Malcolm,  saying:  "  Do  you  detect 
anything?  " 

"  Yes ;  there  is  a  strange  drug  smell  about  it — a  heathen 
taint  like  the  smell  of  yon  infidel  prayer  wheel." 

"  What  do  you  think  it  is,  Malcolm — have  you  any 
idea?" 

"  I've  never  got  a  whiff  of  the  Devil's  breath,  but  I  think 
it  would  be  a  bit  like  this.  Still  I  think  you're  putting  too 
much  store  by  it,  Doctor,  as  a  cause  for  consideration.  What 
could  it  have  to  do  with  Neil's  disappearance  ?  " 

I  could  see  his  eye  searching  my  thoughts,  as  if  he  would 
184 


The  Lone  Furrow 


fathom  something  that  I  hesitated  to  express.  I  came  back  to 
my  former  argument  that  it  must  have  a  strong  bearing  on 
the  mystery,  because  Robert,  who  knew  something  which  we 
did  not,  had  been  forced  into  a  lie  through  the  desk  drawer 
and  its  contents. 

"  Well,  it's  an  elusive  clew  this,  and  will  lead  to  noth- 
ing," Malcolm  declared.  "  Hadn't  we  better  be  going?  " 

"  I  want  to  take  a  look  through  the  house,"  I  answered, 
"  cellar  and  all.  It  will  rest  my  mind." 

We  went  down  to  the  kitchen,  Malcolm  searching  for  a 
candle. 

"  It  won't  take  us  long,  anyway,"  he  said,  with  the  light 
in  his  hand.  "  You  look  as  though  you  expected  to  see  a 
ghost,  Doctor,"  he  added  at  the  bottom  of  the  cellar  stairs, 
holding  the  candle  above  his  head,  and  scanning  my  face.  "  I 
declare  you're  white  about  the  gills." 

I  answered  with  a  nervous  laugh,  and  he  led  the  way 
into  the  coal  cellar,  and  then  into  another  storage  room,  con- 
taining nothing  but  barrels  and  tubs. 

Suddenly  I  heard  an  exclamation  of  surprise  from  Bain. 
He  had  thrown  open  the  door  of  a  closet,  and  was  holding  a 
bottle  between  his  eyes  and  the  candle  light.  He  put  the  bot- 
tle down  and  picked  up  another.  This  he  replaced  on  the 
shelf,  and  stood  rubbing  his  chin  contemplatively. 

"  What's  the  matter?  "  I  asked.  "  Were  you  for  a  swig 
at  the  bottle  and  found  it  empty?" 

"  It's  empty,  right  enough,  and  so  is  the  other  one.  But 
there  should  be  a  dozen  full  ones  here,  and  there  are  none." 

"Full  of  what,  Malcolm?" 

"  Communion  wine  for  the  sacrament."    My  silence  car- 
ried him  on  with  an  explanation.    "  The  thrifty  elders  of  the 
13  185 


The  Lone  Furrow 


Kirk  get  it  in  bulk  once  a  year,  and  it  has  always  been  stored 
here  in  the  manse  cellar.  It  was  a  good  idea  because  I've 
known  of  an  occasion  where,  through  forgetfulness,  there  was 
no  wine  forthcoming  for  communion  service.  Man!  it's 
lucky  I  discovered  this  shortage,  for  next  Sabbath  is  com- 
munion, and  we'd  be  depending  on  this  for  supply." 

"  What's  become  of  it?  "  I  queried. 

"Aye,  that's  what's  troubling  me." 

"  Could  somebody  have  broken  in  and  stolen  it?  "  I  asked. 

Malcolm  pointed  to  the  two  empty  bottles.  "  Besides,"  he 
said,  "  the  house  has  not  been  broached." 

"  Somebody  in  the  house  drank  it,  you  think?  It  couldn't 
have  been  Munro  himself,  he  was  bitter  against  drink.  He 
even  raised  his  voice  in  protest  against  having  wine  on  the 
communion  table,"  I  protested. 

"  No,  it  wasn't  Minister." 

"  Could  it  have  been  Robert?  "  I  said  hesitatingly.  Then 
carried  on  by  this  train  of  thoughts,  my  mind  groping  for 
links  in  the  broken  chain,  I  added :  "  Robert  was  intoxicated 
the  night  he  quarreled  with  Neil.  Can  it  be  possible  that 
Munro  caught  him  drinking  this  wine?  " 

"  It's  a  dreadful  thought,"  Malcolm  answered  heavily. 

"  But  the  boy's  liquor  had  been  shut  off  at  the  tavern, 
and  I  know  from  what  I've  seen  of  these  weaklings  that  a 
man  with  a  craving  for  strong  drink  will  steal  it  when  he'll 
steal  nothing  else.  Without  being  a  thief — if  you  can  call  it 
that — he'll  steal  liquor  for  the  devil  that  is  in  his  blood. 
Heavens,  it's  horrible!  Isn't  this  guardianship  of  our 
brother's  a  terrible  thing?  Is  it  any  wonder  that  the  Devil 
seems  to  get  the  upper  hand  of  the  Lord  when  humans  are 
the  chessmen  in  the  great  game  ?  Let's  away  into  the  open — 

186 


The  Lone  Furrow 


my  soul  is  sick  of  this ;  let's  out  to  the  air.  I  want  to  blow  my 
lungs  full  of  the  wind  from  the  fields.  God,  man!  I  think" 
that  we  were  better  when  we  dwelt  in  caves  and  gnawed  at 
bones  like  animals." 

We  trudged  silently  up  the  cellar  stairs  and  out  into  the 
sunshine,  and  then  Malcolm  said :  "  Come  for  a  walk,  Doc- 
tor, before  you  go  back.  Your  face  is  not  something  of  cheer 
— the  stubble  of  the  reaped  fields,  and  the  drapery  of  the 
clouds  in  the  sky  will  wipe  off  the  smudge." 

Walking,  I  think  we  each  tried  to  wean  our  minds  from 
the  disagreeable.  Malcolm  talked  vociferously  of  the  sky 
aspect. 

"  Man !  but  the  clouds  are  glorious  to-day,"  he  said. 
"  Yon  tangled  mass  in  the  west  is  like  the  Rocky  Mountain 
Range,  huge-cleft  valleys  and  snow-topped  peaks.  All  the 
majesty  of  man's  construction  is  like  a  jack-in-the-box  com- 
pared with  that  magnificence." 

"  It's  a  very  black  heavy  cloud,"  I  answered ;  "  It  hovers 
over  the  burnt-gold  carpet  of  these  fields  like  the  mystery  that 
hangs  over  our  spirits." 

"  There  you  go  again,  Doctor.  Born  an  optimist — I'll 
wager  you  had  red  hair  when  you  were  young — the  hopeful 
castle  builder,  now  you're  in  apostasy,  pessimistic  to  the  edge 
of  despair.  Man  alive!  look  at  the  glorious  silver  fringe  to 
that  mass  of  cloud." 

"  But  I  see  no  silver  lining  to  the  lone  woman's  cloud," 
I  objected. 

"You  don't?  and  what  did  you  tell  me  to-day — not  an 
hour  ago?  " 

Rebuked,  I  plodded  on  a  little  in  silence. 

"  It's  no  use,  Malcolm,"  I  cried  bitterly,  "  I  can't  shake 
I87 


The  Lone  Furrow 


off  a  horribly  repugnant  feeling  that  Neil  never  left  the  vil- 
lage— alive,"  I  added. 

"  Well,  he  couldn't  leave  it  in  the  daylight  any  other  way 
but  alive,  without  somebody  knowing  it." 

"  His  body  could  have  been  carried  out  in  the  dark." 

"  Aye,  it  could,  but  it  wasn't." 

"  How  do  you  know  that,  Malcolm?  " 

"  I  can  prove  it  to  you,  and  perhaps  that  will  add  to  your 
peace  of  mind,  though  it  never  had  much  influence  with  me, 
for  I  always  felt  convinced  that  he  just  walked  quietly  away, 
taking  the  country  road  for  it,  perhaps  to  some  small  railway 
station,  with  the  animal  cunning  of  some  half-daft  creature." 

"  But  the  proof,  Malcolm,"  I  cried  impatiently. 

"  I'll  give  it  to  you.  There  was  a  letter  found  in  the  post 
box  at  the  opening  hour,  eight  o'clock,  by  MacKay ;  it  was  ad- 
dressed, in  Munro's  peculiar  well-known  hand,  to  the  pro- 
prietor of  the  '  Plowshare,'  and  was  an  order  revoking  the 
ban  that  Minister  had  put  upon  the  selling  of  liquor  to  Rob- 
ert Craig.  For  my  own  information  I  had  a  talk  with  Postie 
MacKay  about  this  letter.  He's  a  sharp-eyed  man,  is  Don- 
ald, and  the  fact  of  Minister  writing  to  the  tavern  keeper 
caught  his  inquisitive  fancy.  Well,  MacKay,  when  I  quizzed 
him,  remembered  that  Neil's  letter  lay  on  top  of  all  the  others 
— two  of  my  own,  in  fact,  that  I'd  slipped  into  the  opening 
about  six  o'clock.  I  was  abroad  early,  taking  a  look  at  the 
sunrise.  And  there  were  others,  workers,  that  post  letters 
early  in  the  morning;  so  you  see  Doctor,  Minister  must  have 
slipped  that  in  the  box  sometime  about  seven  o'clock,  perhaps 
later." 

"  Did  you  have  suspicions,  too,  Malcolm  ?  " 

"  I  was  just  looking  for  a  clew.  I  just  locked  all  fancies 
188 


The  Lone  Furrow 


and  imaginings  in  a  drawer  by  themselves  as  being  worse 
than  useless." 

"  But  Robert  might  have  put  that  letter  in  the  box,"  I 
persisted ;  ''  he  may  have  forced  Munro  to  give  it  to  him." 

"  A  very  weak  argument,  Cameron,"  Malcolm  retorted ; 
"  Munro  was  not  a  man  to  be  forced  by  anybody — he  just  did 
this  thing  voluntarily.  And  Robert  was  intoxicated  I'm 
thinking — that's  what  caused  the  row — so  Minister  wouldn't 
trust  the  letter  to  him;  and,  even  if  he  had,  the  boy,  made 
boastful  with  strong  drink,  irresponsible,  would  have  taken 
it  to  the  tavern  keeper,  flourishing  it  as  a  sign  of  victory. 
He'd  have  been  a  great  man  in  his  own  estimation." 

"  But  why  should  Munro  give  such  a  letter  just  when 
Robert  appeared  to  need  being  on  the  black  list  most,  when  he 
had  broken  out?  " 

"  That  was  the  very  cause,"  Malcolm  affirmed  com- 
placently. "  That  the  devil  of  desire  that  was  in  the  boy  had 
not  been  lain  low,  that  it  now  made  him  a  thief,  caused  Min- 
ister to  give  up  in  despair.  The  ban  was  so  useless  anyway. 
The  law  seems  powerless  to  put  down  the  drink.  Do  you 
know  how  they  evade  that  restriction  of  the  black  list?  " 

"  I  thought  it  was  impossible — there's  a  heavy  fine,"  I 
said. 

Bain  looked  at  me  pityingly.  "  You're  a  man  of  books, 
Doctor,  having  great  faith  in  the  majesty  of  the  law.  I'll 
tell  you.  A  man  on  the  black  list,  with  his  liquor  forbidden, 
will  be  invited  up  to  the  bar  by  a  man  more  foolish  than  him- 
self. Aye,  we  might  name  the  foolish  one  Cain.  Cain  asks 
Abel  to  take  a  drink,  calling  for  whisky  himself.  The  bar- 
tender passes  Abel — who  is  under  the  ban — a  cigar.  That 
closes  the  deal  so  far  as  the  hotel  is  concerned ;  it  has  observed 

189 


The  Lone  Furrow 


the  letter  of  the  law.  Then  Cain  slits  Abel's  throat — he 
makes  a  trade  with  him,  trades  his  glass  of  whisky  to  Abel 
for  the  cigar.  Man  alive!  but  it's  a  glorious  thing,  this  hu- 
man intellect;  it's  clever.  I  suppose  that  when  Robert  had 
the  quarrel  with  Munro  that  night  he  cast  this  up  to  him — 
sneered  at  his  puny  efforts  for  reformation.  Perhaps  it  was 
the  last  straw  that  broke  the  camel's  back  of  Neil's  fruitless 
endeavor.  What  the  workings  of  his  mind  were,  I  can't  say ; 
melancholia  takes  strange  forms.  He  wouldn't  be  the  first — • 
nor  the  thousandth  who  has  wandered  off  pursuing  strange 
phantoms,  forgetting  name,  the  ties  of  home,  perhaps  even 
God." 

Bain's  voice  lowered  huskily  as  he  mentioned  the  last  stage 
of  forgetfulness. 

I  returned  to  the  Hedge,  my  mind  brighter  because  of 
Malcolm's  logical  reasoning.  Perhaps,  after  all,  it  was  some- 
thing in  connection  with  this  drinking  business  that  Robert 
wished  to  conceal.  It  must  be ;  the  other  was  too  horrible. 

And  then,  at  this  summing  up,  the  Devil  pinched  my 
elbow  and  whispered,  "  why  has  that  sharp-pointed  knife  dis- 
appeared— why  were  the  coat,  and  the  cap,  and  the  gloves 
burned?" 

"Why?  My  God!"  I  cried  in  misery,  "everything  is 
'why.'"  Nothing  but  to  wait;  and  to  wait  better  perhaps 
than  to  know.  If  everything  would  but  remain  steeped  in  un- 
solvable  mystery,  time  would  draw  the  thick  veil  of  eternal 
silence  about  it,  and  leave  Jean  bravely  stepping  the  lone  fur- 
row, till  her  babe  came — a  new  life  rising  out  of  the  dead. 


190 


CHAPTER   XIII 

I  OR  a  week  we  drifted  on  almost  placid 
waters ;  deep  and  murky — unruffled  by  storms 
or  dangerous  currents,  the  heavy  monotony 
of  biding  on  sorrow  and  mystery  relieved  by 
trifles  of  brightness  emanating  almost  entirely 
from  the  children. 

There  were  distressing  reports  about  Robert  Craig;  and 
often  at  midnight  I  could  hear  his  unsteady  step  passing  the 
Hedge,  as  he  made  his  way  to  the  old  Craig  home  where  he 
still  lived. 

One  afternoon  I  saw  Robert  coming  on  the  sidewalk  and 
from  his  glances  toward  the  house  I  conjectured  his  intention 
was  to  come  in.  From  his  appearance  I  judged  that  he  was 
about  three  parts  gone  in  the  circuit  of  his  daily  orbit;  his 
physical  exterior  was  an  unfailing  index  of  his  mental  con- 
dition. Generally  about  ten  o'clock  he  was  in  perihelion, 
neat  and  vivacious ;  from  that  on  there  would  be  a  subtle  de- 
terioration in  apparel  and  gentility  of  intellect.  Each  addi- 
tional drink  would  set  awry  his  hat,  or  his  tie,  or  disconnect 
a  button — brush  his  eye  with  the  glaze  of  brightness  until, 
later,  layer  upon  layer,  the  glaze  would  become  opaque ;  and 
at  this  stage  his  vocabulary  would  become  disjointed.  Now  I 


The  Lone  Furrow 


observed  his  most  absolute  sign  of  spirit  excitement — a  hand 
twitching  nervously  at  one  side  of  his  thin  blond  mustache. 

I  didn't  want  him  coming  in  where  Jean  might  see  him  in 
that  state,  so  I  passed  hurriedly  through  the  gate,  ostensibly 
on  my  way  to  the  stores. 

"  Hello,  Doc,"  Robert  cried  when  we  met,  "  skipping  the 
muse?  How's  the  quill — mightier'n  the  sword  to-day?  " 

"  Jean  is  not  very  well — she's  lying  down  with  a  bad 
headache,  and  I  was  just  going  up  to  the  druggist."  I  said 
this  to  forestall  what  I  anticipated  was  a  visit  to  Jean;  but 
he  answered,  "  I  wasn't  coming  to  see  Sister — I  wanted  to 
speak  to  you ;  strictly  confidential,  you  know." 

Robert  pulled  at  his  thin  mustache  and  eyed  me. 

"You  haven't  heard  anything,  have  you,  Robert?"  I 
asked,  startled. 

'  That's  just  what  I  have;  that's  what  I  want  to  see  you 
'bout." 

Jean  was  really  in  her  room  lying  down,  and  lest  passers 
might  hear  what  he  had  to  say,  I  led  the  way  back  to  my 
lawn. 

"  Ah!  that'sh  what  I  like—  This'sh  better,"  the  boy  said 
as  he  took  a  chair ;  "  I  hate  standing  up  to  talk  bus'ness — no 
good." 

I  scrutinized  him  closer  now.  Judging  from  his  careless 
speech  he  was  more  drunk  than  I  had  thought. 

"What  is  it,  Robert?"  I  asked;  "not  bad  news,  I 
hope." 

"Yes;  bad  news"  —  the  boy  viciously  hesitated  long 
enough  for  me  to  show  my  anxiety,  then  he  added,  "  Munro's 
alive,  right  enough." 

"  And  you  call  that  bad  news,  you  confounded  rascal." 
192 


The  Lone  Furrow 


"  I'll  excuse  you,  Doctor — you  don't  know  what  you're 
talking  about." 

I  ignored  this.  "  How  do  you  know?  "  I  asked,  "  what 
have  you  heard — who  told  you — where  is  Neil?"  I  poured 
the  questions  one  after  another. 

"  A  man  'at  used  to  know  Neil  saw  him  in  Montreal." 

"  Where  is  the  man — here  ?  " 

"  No;  he's  in  York — and  that's  what  I  want  to  talk  about 
— I  am  going  in  to  see  him." 

"  My  God,  boy,  you'll  save  your  sister's  life  perhaps,  if 
you  can  find  Neil." 

Robert  looked  at  me  curiously.  There  was  sullen  dissent 
in  his  eyes;  the  profligate  lips  hardened  in  a  sneer. 

"  You  mean  well,  Doctor,  but  you  don't  know  what 
you're  talking  about,"  he  answered  through  the  lips  that  bit- 
tered  the  words  with  their  sneer.  Then  he  added,  "  I  want 
to  get  twenty  dollars  from  you;  I'm  short." 

A  sudden  suspicion  flashed  across  my  mind  that  Robert, 
now*  under  the  influence  of  his  master,  had  fabricated  this 
story  to  obtain  money  for  a  drinking  bout  in  York.  I  re- 
membered the  stolen  wine,  and  Malcolm,  who  was  trustee 
for  Robert  and  Jean,  had  confided  in  me  the  trouble  he  had 
in  keeping  the  boy  from  spending  not  only  his  own  but  Jean's 
income.  And  the  boy's  causticity  in  his  reference  to  this  trace 
of  Munro  was  also  suspicious.  Besides,  he  was  in  no  state 
to  start  away  half  intoxicated. 

"  I  won't  give  you  the  money  to-night,  Robert,"  I  said 
flatly ;  "  you've  been  drinking  too  much  —  wait  till  to- 
morrow." 

He  flared  up  indignantly,  declaring  he  was  as  sober  as  a 
judge;  but  I  was  saved  a  scene  by  Malcolm's  opportune  ar- 

193 


The  Lone  Furrow 


rival.  He  nodded  to  Craig,  saying:  "  Good  day  to  you,  Rob- 
ert. It's  warm — we'll  have  rain." 

To  me,  knowing  the  subtle  manifestations  of  Bain's 
moods,  this  greeting  of  friendship,  tinged  by  reserve,  the  al- 
lusion to  the  neutral  subject  of  the  weather  indicated  plainly 
that  Malcolm's  shrewd  eye  had  noted  the  boy's  condition. 
Indeed  Malcolm  always  preserved  an  attitude  of  reserved  po- 
liteness toward  Craig,  and,  in  consequence,  the  latter  stood 
considerably  in  awe  of  him.  It  was  really  a  trying  renuncia- 
tion upon  Bain's  part,  adopted  as  a  painless  form  of  mastery ; 
for,  because  of  his  chivalric  love  for  Jean,  Malcolm  enter- 
tained toward  the  boy  the  same  tender  regard  he  might  have 
had  for  a  younger  brother. 

"  I  came  in  for  my  umbrella,  Cameron,"  Bain  explained, 
turning  to  me — "  I  left  it  yesterday;  we'll  catch  it  heavy  to- 
night. I  thought  the  mountain  might  split  yon  black  cloud, 
but  the  wind  is  from  the  east,  and  the  east  wind  always  has 
its  own  way.  I've  got  to  come  out  to  a  meeting  in  the  church 
this  evening — it  won't  be  bad  if  some  of  the  determined  ones 
get  a  soaking  for  their  hurry,  I'm  thinking." 

"What's  up?"  I  asked. 

"  It's  all  up.  They've  convened  a  meeting  to  have  the 
Presbytery  declare  the  pulpit  vacant,  and  then  extend  a  call 
to  Minister  Grey." 

"  They  seem  to  take  it  for  granted  Munro  is  dead,"  I  ex- 
claimed bitterly. 

"  Aye,  they  do." 

Robert  had  been  sitting  in  sullen  anger,  Malcolm's  ar- 
rival having  curbed  further  expressions  of  wrath  at  my 
declaration.  Now  his  anger  shifted  from  me  to  the  church 
people,  his  temper  got  the  upper  hand ;  he  rose  to  his  feet  in  a 

194 


The  Lone  Furrow 


rage.  "  Damn  them  for  a  lot  of  fools!  "  he  cried.  "  I'll  give 
them  a  surprise.  You're  all  fools  looking  in  the  only  paths 
you've  ever  trod  for  Munro's  trail.  I'm  drunk,  am  I  ?  " — 
now  he  had  veered  back  to  me — "  but  I'll  tell  you  this,  drunk, 
loaded  to  the  neck,  I'm  the  only  one  in  the  whole  lot  that 
knows  anything  about  this,  or  about  that  hypocrite — Min-is- 
ter  Munro  \  "  The  boy  broke  the  word  minister  into  three 
fragments  with  a  sneering  drawl  of  contempt. 

I  stared  in  horror.  It  was  like  the  fitful  play  of  an  insane 
mind ;  but  Malcolm  just  drew  a  deep  breath,  and  said  calmly, 
"  Robert,  if  you  know  anything,  tell  it  like  a  man." 

"  Tell  it  like  a  dog,  you  mean.  Never,  Bain.  I'll  give  the 
Pharisees  a  jar." 

The  boy  went  out  through  the  gate,  clanging  it  angrily 
behind  him.  And  Malcolm,  turning  to  me  with  a  troubled 
face,  asked :  "  Have  you  any  idea,  Cameron,  what  Robert 
means?  I  heard  his  voice,  angry-like,  just  as  I  happened  in. 
One  minute  I  think  he's  just  going  queer  with  whisky,  and 
again  I'm  of  the  opinion  that  there's  something  behind  his 
antics.  Was  he  saying  anything  about  Minister?  " 

"  Yes — that  he  was  alive — had  been  seen." 

"Thank  God!" 

It  was  an  honest  exclamation. 

"  But  I'm  in  grave  doubt,  Bain,  about  any  dependence  to 
be  placed  upon  Robert's  story." 

I  saw  the  glad  look  pass  gradually  from  Bain's  face  as  I 
related  my  interview  with  Craig. 

"  I'm  afraid  you're  right,  Doctor ;  and  you  acted  wisely  in 
not  giving  him  the  money.  I'll  see  Robert  myself  to-morrow, 
early,  when  he's  quite  himself.  I'll  just  force  the  truth 
from  him ;  there  may  be  something  in  it,  and  if  I  think  there 

195 


The  Lone  Furrow 


is,  I'll  just  go  to  York  with  him — that's  the  only  way.  He's 
as  weak  as  water,  poor  boy!  I'd  go  to-night  if  it  weren't  for 
this  meeting.  I  was  meaning  to  have  a  talk  with  you,  while 
I  was  here,  about  these  same  money  matters.  I  was  putting 
it  off  till  the  last  minute,  till  like  the  foreclosing  of  the 
mortgage.  To-night  Munro  will  practically  cease  to  be  the 
incumbent  and  his  salary  will  be  stopped — it  would  have  been 
stopped  before  now,  if  I  hadn't  made  a  strong  stand.  Aye, 
my  brother  Scots  don't  leave  their  business  instincts  at  the 
door  of  the  kirk  like  a  Mussulman  puts  off  his  shoes  at  the 
mosque.  And  I'm  going  to  confide  in  you,  if  you  don't  mind, 
Cameron,  a  business  that  I  hoped  to  keep  all  to  myself;  but 
it's  not  safe,  it's  not  to  the  best  interests  of — of — Mrs. 
Munro. 

"  In  the  first  place — going  away  back — as  you  know, 
MacKay  and  I  were  executors  for  Simon  Craig.  Robert 
was  left  the  home;  the  income  from  the  estate,  which  was 
chiefly  some  timber  lands  and  a  saw  mill  in  Tecuinseh,  was  to 
be  divided  between  Jean  and  Robert.  I  think  I  managed 
fairly  well,  for  there  was  little  to  do  but  just  pay  out  the  in- 
come. But  for  the  past  year  or  two  there's  been  little  to 
divide,  and,  paradoxically,  that  has  made  it  harder." 

"  I  see."  I  understood  that  Malcolm  was  thinking  solely 
of  the  loss  to  Robert  and  Jean. 

"  I'm  glad  you  do,"  he  said  dryly,  "  for  what  I  stated 
hardly  sounded  like  good  sense.  Minister  Munro  had  his 
salary,  but  he  might  as  well  have  been  without  it ;  he  didn't 
seem  to  comprehend  that  any  of  it  was  needed  for  himself  or 
the  wife;  in  fact,  he  gave  away  all  he  had — more,  too,  for 
there  are  a  few  debts.  I  thought  that  the  timber  property 
would  pick  up,  so  I  just  loaned  the  estate  a  trifle  without 

196 


The  Lone  Furrow 


saying  anything  to  MacKay  about  it — I  was  looking  after  the 
books  myself,  mind  you.  Robert  was  needing  money — more 
than  he  got,  I'm  pleased  to  say — and  the  sister  too;  so  I  just 
paid  them  what  they  should  have  got  if  things  hadn't  been 
bad  in  the  timber  line.  I  didn't  make  any  notes  of  this 
matter  in  the  books,  or  anywhere,  for  it  would  only  have 
fuddled  MacKay,  and  he's  a  busy  man.  I  wouldn't  have 
done  it  if  I  had  needed  the  money  myself — but  I  didn't — I 
had  enough,"  Bain  added  apologetically  when  I  involuntarily 
put  my  hand  affectionately  on  his  knee. 

"  Don't  flatter  yourself,  Cameron,"  he  continued,  "  that 
you'd  have  been  let  know  this — or  any  other  man  for  the  mat- 
ter of  that,  only  that  I'm  now  forced  to  tell  you  because  I'm 
needing  your  services.  In  short,  with  Munro's  stipend  cut 
off — and  the  mill  shut  down  this  summer  because  there  was 
no  snow  last  winter  to  get  out  logs — there'll  be  little  or  noth- 
ing for  either  of  the  poor  children.  Also  I  had  a  bit  look  over 
the  timber  lands,  and  it's  pretty  well  stripped,  so  there'll  not 
be  much  for  the  future." 

"  I  understand." 

"  I  think  you  do  now — I'm  trying  to  be  explicit,  though 
tiresome  perhaps.  Now  I  want  to  just  keep  up  a  bit  income 
for  Mrs.  Munro  and  Robert;  they  were  left  in  my  charge, 
and  the  Lord  was  good  enough  to  supply  me  with  funds  not 
of  my  own  making.  I  could  have  managed  this  much  with- 
out troubling  anybody  about  it,  for  MacKay  is  not  much  for 
meddling  if  he  thinks  things  are  all  right,  but  you  see,  Doctor, 
something  might  happen  me." 

"  God  forbid,  Malcolm!  "  I  ejaculated. 

"  Aye,  I  hope  it  won't,  for  a  time,  but  it  may.  There's 
a  very  strong  line  in  the  Good  Book  bearing  on  that  subject 

197 


The  Lone  Furrow 


illustrating  the  uncertainty  of  life:  'Thou  fool,  this  night 
thy  soul  shall  be  required  of  thee  ' — so,  Doctor,  I'm  going  to 
arrange  for  up  to  the  time  that  shall  be  spoken  in  my  case, 
and  for  after,  if  needed.  And  I'm  going  to  ask  you  to  just 
see  that  it's  carried  out.  Will  you  do  that,  man?  I've 
thought  hours  over  it — I  can't  do  it  alone,  and  I  can  trust 
you,  Cameron ;  now,  will  you  do  it,  man  ?  " 

"  God !  Bain,  you're  a  noble  character — I'll  do  everything 
in  my  power." 

"  There's  no  great  praise  coming  to  me,  Cameron ;  I  can't 
eat  the  money,  I've  no  one  to  give  it  to,  that  is,  that's  needing 
it  sorely.  And  these  two  were  left  in  my  charge ;  they  are  the 
only  children  I  ever  came  by  or  ever  will.  And  if  anything 
is  ever  said  that  would  hurt  Jean,  you  could  nail  the  lie,  Doc- 
tor, for  you  know  how  it  is  now. 

"  Man !  but  I've  talked  a  lot,"  Bain  added,  looking  at  his 
watch. 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,"  I  objected.  "  Silence  may  be  golden, 
but  speech  clears  the  air." 

"  It's  the  other  way  about  sometimes,"  Bain  argued. 
"  There'll  be  the  meeting  to-night." 

"  I'll  go,  Malcolm,"  I  declared. 

"  Thank  you,  Doctor.  See  the  cleverness  of  that  storm ; 
it'll  come  down  the  Ninth  Concession  Road  through  the  dip 
in  the  mountain.  It'll  just  save  its  energy  for  a  full  bang 
at  the  village.  Good  afternoon  to  you." 

It  was  solely  Bain's  unexpressed  wish  that  gave  me  an  in- 
tention to  attend  the  church  meeting.  Functionally  I  might 
go  as  an  interested  member  in  proxy  for  the  Memsahib,  who 
was  quite  a  church  worker.  This  would  be  sufficient  to  still 
the  tongues  of  captious  ones  ready  to  impute  idle  curiosity,  or 

198 


The  Lone   Furrow 


a  prying  lieutenantship  In  Jean's  interests.  But  now,  drawn 
into  it  casually  though  I  had  been,  I  thought  of  the  meeting 
with  eager  anticipation.  It  would  be  a  chance  for  psycho- 
logical study.  The  villagers  had  moved  upon  a  somewhat 
distant  horizon.  I  had  seen  them  as  an  artist  views  a  land- 
scape through  half-closed  eyes,  the  shading  lids  blurring  to 
softness  hard  lines  of  distinction,  blocking  the  whole  into 
masses  of  light  and  shade. 

Trooping  stanchly  to  church  Sabbath  mornings,  I  had 
taken  their  submissive  adherence  to  the  Calvinistic  creed  as 
an  admirable  guarantee  of  observance  of  the  highest  law  gov- 
erning humanity.  Indeed  Sunday  the  village  was  Utopian 
from  a  theological  point  of  view.  The  slightest  attempt  at 
desecration  of  the  holy  day  had  been  put  down  ruthlessly; 
new-fangled  innovations  of  the  Devil's  instigation  nipped  in 
the  bud.  Perhaps  the  most  serious  attempt  to  offset  the  Lord's 
wise  fourth  commandment  had  been  the  insidious  introduction 
of  a  Sunday  newspaper  full  of  worldly  doings.  It  wasn't  really 
a  Sunday  paper,  for  it  was  published  Saturday  night  in  the 
city  of  York. 

The  son  of  a  poor  widow,  wishing  to  help  his  mother  in 
her  struggle  for  existence,  no  doubt  listening  to  the  tempting 
voice  of  the  Evil  One,  hit  upon  a  plan  of  endeavor,  which,  if 
he  had  been  allowed  to  pursue  his  wicked  course,  would,  soon 
or  late,  have  brought  about  moral  disaster.  He  entered  into 
a  compact  with  the  godless  proprietors  of  the  York  papers  to 
send  him  by  the  Sunday  morning  train  running  through  lona 
a  bundle  of  these  "  Devil's  pamphlets." 

It  was  Deacon  Hoskins  of  a  lesser  church  who  had  so 
rightly  named  the  pernicious  journal ;  and  it  was  Deacon 
Hoskins  who  overthrew  the  Evil  One  and  his  campaign  of 

199 


The  Lone  Furrow 


destruction  by  stopping  the  sale  of  the  paper,  using  the  law  as 
his  weapon. 

Could  we  have  lived  thus  seven  days  of  the  week  I  fancy 
it  would  have  taken  little  strain  to  remain  entirely  holy,  but 
the  other  six  of  sharp-edged  strife  in  the  matter  of  barter, 
threw  the  theological  system  sadly  out  of  joint.  Several  deals 
of  my  own  had  confused  my  mind  sadly  as  to  the  real  moral 
status  of  the  good  people. 

There  was  the  unreconcilable  cord  of  firewood  that  had 
been  delivered  to  me  at  least  a  quarter  short  in  measurement ; 
there  was  the  load  of  potatoes  for  which  I  had  paid  a  liberal 
price  upon  the  assurance  of  the  tubers  being  superlatively 
good,  that  in  the  pot  turned  a  chrome-yellow  and  nauseating 
to  the  palate  through  having  been  frozen  before  delivery.  In 
fact  I  had  a  suspicion  that,  trading  upon  my  inexperience,  the 
worthy  farmer  had  sought  me  out  as  an  easy  victim.  And 
rankling  in  my  mind  as  a  curious  misvaluation  of  trust  were 
the  several  barrels  of  apples  I  had  brought  from  another  yeo- 
man as  prime  A  I  shipping  fruit,  charged  for  in  accordance 
with  this  quality;  but  "  when  the  pie  was  opened  they  all  be- 
gan to  sing,"  a  veritable  song  of  derision,  for  the  apples  were 
"  seconds,"  worth  less  than  half  the  sum  I  had  paid  for  them. 

My  trust  in  humanity  carried  a  chipped  edge  all  around 
its  rather  wide  margin  through  the  nicks  that  had  been  left  in 
it  by  men  who  considered  me  in  a  very  bad  way  indeed,  spirit- 
ually; it  resembled  a  wall  which  abutted  my  lawn.  It  was 
the  Agnosttc's  critical  eye  and  tongue  that  discovered  to  me 
how  thoroughly  I  had  been  done  in  this  piece  of  masonry. 

"  Making  bricks  without  straw  was  nothing  to  the  feat 
those  masons  accomplished,"  he  said  one  day,  prodding  at  the 
wall  with  his  cane. 

2OO 


The  Lone  Furrow 


"  Be  careful,  Major,"  I  exclaimed ;  "  you  are  poking  a 
hole  in  it." 

He  laughed  quizzically  and  continued  not  only  his  dis- 
course, but  the  disruption  of  the  abutment.  "  Here's  a 
cement  wall  without  any  cement." 

"  You're  mistaken,  Major,"  I  asserted ;  "  I  paid  for  four 
bags  of  cement." 

"  I  don't  doubt  that  in  the  least,  and  some  other  man  paid 
for  them  again  when  they  were  really  put  into  his  work. 
This  is  nothing  but  a  square  mound  of  sand  and  gravel 
and  a  little  lime,  glazed  over  with  a  cement  shell  the 
thickness  of  blotting  paper;  a  pail  of  cement  for  the  whole 
job." 

The  Major  was  right.  The  disreputable  wall  was  some- 
thing to  stand  there  as  an  insistent  rebuke  to  my  faith  in  the 
honest  toiler  of  the  simple  life. 

The  only  incident  in  this  warfare  of  spiritual  excellence 
against  mundane  depravity  that  I  failed  utterly  in  tabulat- 
ing correctly  was  an  incident  that  actually  had  nothing  to  do 
with  me  whatever,  yet,  like  a  true  villager,  I  bothered  the 
more  over  it. 

Perhaps  Hugh  Chisholm  had  found  Presbyterianism  too 
frivolous  and  unexacting ;  at  any  rate  he  was  a  deacon  in  the 
Church  of  the  Plymouth  Brethren.  Coincident  with  this  he 
kept  a  store. 

And  one  day  his  fellow-Plymouthians  stared  aghast  at  an 
advertisement  of  Deacon  Chisholm's  in  the  lona  paper  which 
read : 

"  Nobby  hats  and  smart  shoes  for  sale." 

This  was  a  little  too  much  for  the  Plymouth  Brothers,  and 
they  took  serious  counsel  with  Deacon  Hugh,  asking  him  to 
14  201 


The  Lone  Furrow 


eliminate  that  dangerous  word  "  Nobby."  It  was  almost  as 
wicked  as  the  posters  of  women  in  short  skirts  which  an  un- 
wise traveling  show  had  attempted  to  display  upon  the  vil- 
lage fences. 

The  Deacon  bowed  his  neck  meekly  to  their  reprimand, 
and  next  week  his  advertisement  was  changed  to: 

"  Hats  for  the  upright  and  shoes  for  tender-feet." 

I  noted  this  change  with  varied  interest.  I  knew  the  Dea- 
con as  a  man  most  conscientiously  interested  in  his  own  af- 
fairs and  the  affairs  of  others,  but  up  to  this  reading  I  had 
never  felt  that  he  was  unnecessarily  hilarious.  His  whole 
manner  rather  inclined  one  to  not  expect  too  much  levity ;  but 
that  hyphen  was  either  due  to  weak  punctuation  or  an  ex- 
tremely subtle  humor,  to  say  nothing  of  the  reference  to 
persons  qualified  to  buy  his  hats. 

I  took  the  liberty  of  a  cheerful  allusion  to  the  pleasure  I 
had  derived  from  his  advertisement,  but  he  reproved  my 
jocose  comment  solemnly,  saying  that  the  Brothers  were  quite 
right  in  calling  his  attention  to  the  matter,  that  owing  to  a 
press  of  business  he  had  not  given  the  first  advertisement  suf- 
ficient thought,  forgetting  how  prone  to  frivolity  the  young 
were.  He  had  not  realized  how  dangerous  such  an  example 
from  a  leader  in  the  Church  really  was. 

I  had  been  started  on  this  rehearsal  pilgrimage  of  moral 
obliquity  and  Sabbath  rectitude  by  an  anticipatory  belief  that 
I  should  see,  that  evening,  at  the  church  meeting  these  two 
antagonistic  elements  at  each  other's  throats,  as  it  were.  I 
wandered  about  the  lawn,  caressing  the  Memsahib's  ox-blood 
dahlias,  sniffing  at  the  fragrant  petunias,  tantalizing  my  finer 
sensitiveness  with  the  subtle  perfumed  breath  that  came  fit- 
fully from  the  pale  lips  of  My  Lady  Nicotine,  who,  now  rous- 

2O2 


The  Lone  Furrow 


ing  from  her  odorless  sleep  of  the  day,  kissed  the  evening 
shades  with  langorous  sweetness. 

My  first  impression  at  the  church  meeting  that  evening 
was  one  of  astonished  surprise  at  the  metamorphosis  of  char- 
acter in  John  MacRae.  Ordinarily  he  was  a  heavy-faced 
Scot,  economical  of  everything,  including  words  —  though 
once  upon  a  time  I  had  known  him  to  draw  on  his  bank  of 
Golden  Silence  for  the  saving  of  a  little  silver.  He  had 
brought  me  a  load  of  very  musty  hay,  veneered  on  top  by  a 
thin  layer  of  the  choice  sweet  article,  and  his  taciturnity,  up 
to  a  certain  point  when  I  sought  to  discuss  this  matter  with 
him,  encompassed  him  like  an  impenetrable  armor;  then  at 
last  he  came  out  of  his  shell  to  say: 

"Aye,  aye!  Man  alive!  but  it's  too  bad.  They  English- 
ers  we  ha'e  to  hire  on  the  farms  now  are  just  too  careless  for 
ony thing.  I'll  just  see  about  it.  I'll  gi'e  yon  Cockney  that 
loaded  the  hay  a  lecture  aboot  his  carelessness — man  alive! 
it's  fair  dishonest  to  be  as  reckless  as  that.  I'll  ha'e  a  bit  talk 
wi'  him,  an'  see  just  what  he's  got  to  say  for  himsel'.  Forbye 
he  doesna  come  an'  apologize  to  you,  Doctor,  I'll  just  see  to 
it  mysel',  an'  we'll  arrange  it  to  suit  all  parties.  I'll  no'  stand 
for  such  doings." 

That  was  the  last  I  ever  heard  of  the  matter;  MacRae 
had  my  money  in  his  pocket,  I  had  the  bad  hay,  and,  for  all 
I  knew,  the  Cockney  hireling  was  a  mythological  person.  No 
doubt  it  had  grieved  the  Scot  to  squander  so  much  breath,  but 
it  was  in  a  good  cause,  it  saved  him  parting  with  some  of 
the  money  he  had  filched  from  me. 

Now  at  the  meeting  Elder  MacRae  was  one  of  the  first 
to  express  his  views,  and  nobody  but  a  Scot  could  have  so  in- 
terminably intermingled  religion  and  uncharitableness.  It 

203 


The  Lone   Furrow 


really  appeared  as  if,  in  condemning  Munro's  pastorate,  in 
asking  the  congregation  to  extend  a  call  to  Minister  Grey, 
MacRae  was  suffering  the  pangs  of  martyrdom ;  somehow,  by 
a  far-reaching  sweep,  he  likened  himself  to  Daniel  in  the  lion's 
den,  even,  I  believe,  that  he  was  like  One  driving  the  pigeon 
dealers  from  the  Temple. 

Bain  was  sitting  beside  me  at  the  time  MacRae  was  strenu- 
ously severing  the  tie  of  sympathy  that  connected  the  congre- 
gation with  their  absent  minister;  he  leaned  over  and  whis- 
pered :  "  Yon's  a  fine  sample  of  a  wife-badgered  husband. 
Jennie  MacRae  has  molded  the  bullets  John  is  firing  into 
poor  Neil's  back.  A  vindictive  woman  is  as  productive  of 
condemning  reasons  as  the  Jews  that  were  at  Pontius  Pilate 
to  crucify  the  Saviour." 

There  were  friends  of  Munro  in  the  meeting — several, 
but  they  were  sorely  hampered  by  the  ethical  weakness  of 
their  cause.  Munro  had  voluntarily  gone  away,  practically 
deserted  his  post ;  and  so  mysteriously  that  it  was  impossible 
to  combat  almost  any  derogatory  reason  that  might  be  ad- 
vanced. Besides,  the  Church  was  without  a  head,  which  was 
of  course  a  very  bad  affair.  These  points  were  brought  out 
very  clearly  by  what  Malcolm  called  the  "  Grey  party  " — 
the  eye-for-an-eye  and  tooth-for-a-tooth  party. 

Minister's  defenders  could  plead  only  for  sympathy  and 
patience — in  fact,  judicially  their  case  was  lamentably  weak. 

It  was  Anderson,  an  elder,  one  of  those  who  had  been 
stung  by  Munro's  crusade  against  the  sin  of  intemperance, 
who  alluded  to  the  defection  of  certain  members  from  the 
church,  even  while  Minister  Munro  was  with  them.  He 
all  but  said  that  it  would  be  better  if  Munro  did  not 
come  back. 

204 


The  Lone  Furrow 


I  think  it  was  this  that  galvanized  Malcolm  Bain  into  his 
electrically  thrilling  plea  for  Minister  Munro. 

MacKay,  an  uncertain  quantity  at  all  times,  apt  to  twist 
a  line  of  argument  into  a  toboggan  chute,  carrying  him  with 
swift  recklessness  to  distances  far  beyond  his  intended  goal, 
somehow  became  vindictively  critical  of  Minister  Munro's 
last  appearance  in  the  pulpit,  the  somewhat  sensational  ser- 
mon he  had  preached  the  day  before  his  disappearance. 

"  It  was  very  unorthodox,"  MacKay  began  moderately 
enough ;  "  it  was  confusing  but  no'  deep.  Declamation  is  vera 
fine — in  its  place,  mind  you,"  he  qualified — "  in  its  place." 
He  repeated  this  sapient  rider  slowly  while  he  groped  for  an 
explicit  place  for  declamation.  "  On  the  hustings  it's  vera 
effective;  but  politics  is  no'  religion.  Aye,  Minister  was  dis- 
tinctly sensational,  which  is  all  vera  well  for  some  denomina- 
tions, but'll  no'  do  in  the  Kirk  at  all,  at  all." 

"  Aye,  aye,"  affirmed  MacRae,  nodding  his  shaggy  head 
as  ponderously  as  a  Durham  bull. 

"  There  was  no  solemnity  about  his  discourse  at  all,"  con- 
tinued MacKay ;  "  it  fidgeted  me ;  and  a  body  is  no'  in  a 
proper  prayerful  mood  when  they're  fidgeted.  A  man  might 
as  well  expect  to  hook  a  cunnin'  trout  while  he  was  being 
jiggled  off  his  pins  wi'  mosquitoes." 

"  True  enough,  true  enough !  "  applauded  Anderson ; 
"  the  congregation  was  very  restless  during  the  sermon.  Mrs. 
MacGillicuddy — I  remember  quite  well — dropped  her  glasses 
on  the  floor.  My !  they  clattered ;  an'  I'll  guarantee  that  she 
sat  in  yon  side  pew  for  thirty  years  without  blinkin'  an  eye. 
She  is  a  model  of  decorum  during  service,  is  the  old  body." 

"  And  old  Archie  Campbell  never  slept  a  wink,"  affirmed 
MacRae ;  "  he  just  sat  there  glowering  wi'  his  glassy  eyes, 

205 


The  Lone   Furrow 


staring    in    horror    at    the    theories — they    were   just    that, 
theories,  nothin'  more — propounded  by  Minister." 

Bain  leaned  over  to  me  and  whispered :  "  It  was  vastly 
improper  for  Munro  to  rouse  Archie  Campbell  like  that.  He 
must  have  been  talking  about  the  long-tailed  sheep  of  David's 
time,  for  Archie  just  comes  to  church  for  a  rest  I  think,  a  bit 
of  sleep ;  and  he's  a  hard  man  to  make  pay  for  his  bed  too." 

"  Aye,"  continued  MacKay,  scratching  his  head  for  the 
fugitive  rest  of  his  argument  that  these  observations  had 
caused  to  elude  him.  "  Aye,  poor  Munro,  indeed  it  was!  He 
was  fair  distract.  He  was  a  gude  man — just  in  himself,  I'm 
meaning,  though  if  he'd  exerted  less,  trusted  more  in  the 
Book,  and  the  power  o'  the  Lord  speecified  there,  he'd  a  come 
by  grander  results.  He  was  aye  feverish  in  expression.  It's 
a  large  congregation  here,  and  deefficult  to  keep  in  hand  for- 
bye,  and  I'm  thinkin'  Minister  took  too  much  on  himsel'." 

Bain  pressed  his  toe  gently  against  my  leg  to  draw  my  at- 
tention to  the  extraordinary  winding  in  and  out  of  the  Scot's 
argument. 

But  MacKay,  somehow  attracted  by  a  sympathetic  remem- 
brance of  Munro's  zeal,  proceeded  to  neutralize  his  earlier 
efforts  in  behalf  of  a  call.  He  continued:  "  Perhaps  if  Min- 
ister is  just  biding  quietly  some  place  for  a  bit  rest,  he'll  come 
back  to  us  more  in  harmony  wi'  the  majesty  o'  the  Presby- 
terian form  o'  discoorse.  If  ony  one  has  word  o'  him,  I'd  be 
for  indulgin'  in  the  patience  that  we're  enjoined  to  hold.  But 
if  he's  dead,  it  stands  to  reason  that  we're  wi'out  a  pastor. 
Perhaps  it  would  be  as  well  for  us  to  prove  this  point  first. 
I'm  no'  against  Minister  Munro,  but  I'm  no'  for  him  if  he's 
dead — I  mean,  I'm  no'  for  keeping  the  pulpit  open  indefi- 
nitely." 

206 


The  Lone  Furrow 


When  MacKay  sat  down  everybody  realized  that  though 
he  had  talked  considerably  very  little  progress  had  been  made ; 
whatever  his  intentions  were,  he  had  spoiled  the  broth  by  too 
many  ingredients. 

But  Anderson,  clinging  tenaciously  to  one  word  MacKay 
had  uttered,  "  distract,"  used  it  as  a  shibboleth  to  disqualify 
Minister  Munro. 

"  I'm  not  for  criticising  harshly  any  minister  of  God,"  he 
began,  "  but  as  Elder  MacKay  has  said,  Minister  Munro  was 
not  only  distract,  but  unorthodox  in  his  discourse  the  last 
Sabbath  he  occupied  the  pulpit.  I  remember  at  the  time,  as  I 
stood  for  a  minute  in  the  vestibule  I  said  to — well  to  some 
one — '  Minister  is  not  himself,  yon  man  has  trouble.'  But  says 
he  back,  '  I'm  thinkin'  the  shoe  is  on  the  other  foot  to-day.' 

"'How  so?'  asks  I. 

"  '  Well,'  says  he,  '  if  you  or  me  got  as  worked  up  as  yon, 
they'd  say  we  had  a  drop  too  much.'  " 

"  The  sneak  means  that  Munro  had  been  drinking,"  whis- 
pered Malcolm.  "  My  God ;  was  there  ever  such  a  Pharisee 
from  the  beginning  of  things!  " 

"  Mind  you,  friends,"  added  Anderson,  "  I'm  no'  entering 
an  accusation  against  the  absent  pastor,  I'm  just  makin'  a 
general  observation  bearin'  on  the  matter  of  holdin'  the  pas- 
torate open.  The  idle  rumors  as  to  his  going  away  are  not 
in  our  province  here  to  discuss;  we  must  just  bear  in  mind, 
however,  that  it  was  immediately  after  the  sermon  that  he  re- 
moved himself  from  our  midst.  The  sermon  was  erratic,  and 
Minister  Munro  was  suffering  a  good  deal  from  mental  dis- 
turbance. Others  saw  this,  it  caused  deflections  from  the 
congregation.  The  people  from  the  fourth  Line're  all  at- 
tending the  Kirk  at  Dunnville  now.  There's  a  vast  difference 

207 


The  Lone  Furrow 


between  spiritual  guidance  and  secular  interference,  and  Min- 
ister Munro  did  not  discriminate.  I've  known  him  to  tramp 
out  to  a  barn  raising  a  good  four  miles  to  lecture  the  men 
about  the  evils  of  a  bit  drink.  Men  don't  want  the  yoke 
roughed  up  to  scald  their  necks.  Good  intention  is  often 
knocked  out  by  overexertion.  I've  had  men  workin'  myself, 
that  had  grand  plans  in  the  morning  of  the  wonderful  things 
they  were  going  to  accomplish  that  day,  and  by  noon  they 
were  bushed  and  laid  up  for  repairs.  You  see  I'm  givin' 
Minister  Munro  credit  for  a  grand  desire  for  betterment,  but 
I'm  thinkin'  in  the  interest  o'  the  Church  we  ought  to  give  a 
call  to  some  one." 

"  I'm  not  very  clear  from  his  speech  what  he's  meaning," 
said  Malcolm.  "  Of  course  he's  for  Grey,  but  he's  wordy 
without  saying  much.  I  think  I'd  better  say  a  word ;  but  it  is 
kicking  against  the  pricks,  they're  firm-set  already." 

With  a  little  flutter  of  trepidation  I  watched  Malcolm 
uncoil  his  huge  figure,  ungainly  beyond  any  suspicion  of  ora- 
torical pose.  Sitting  quietly  on  the  lawn  with  one  or  two, 
he  could  hark  back  to  first  principles  in  a  few  simple  words, 
no  matter  how  deeply  involved  the  discussion  might  have  be- 
come. Elemental  principles  were  ever  present  in  his  mind, 
therefore  whatever  he  said  was  usually  very  much  to  the 
point.  But  how  successful  would  he  be  here  in  this  discussion, 
bearing  in  mind  that  the  stubborn  facts,  the  patent  necessities, 
were  with  his  opponents  ? 

"  I'm  not  rising  to  speak  in  defense  of  Minister  Munro," 
he  began,  "  for  that  would  be  wasting  your  time,  as  it's  not 
needed.  There's  no  charge  against  him  except  that  he  la- 
bored too  zealously,  and  that  didn't  please  some;  but  that's 
hardly  a  fault  in  the  Presbyterian  Church.  There  was  need 

208 


The  Lone  Furrow 


for  him,  or  some  other  right-thinking  man  of  authority,  to 
go  to  the  barn  raising  Elder  Anderson  has  spoken  of,  for  the 
week  before  a  man  lost  his  life  because  of  the  liquor — his  pike- 
pole  slipped  because  he  was  too  drunk  to  hold  it  in  a  post,  and 
the  bent  came  down,  killing  him,  and  by  nothing  less  than  a 
miracle  were  others  saved  when  the  bent  crashed  to  earth. 
It  has  been  spoken  as  a  fault  on  the  Minister's  part  that  there 
were  some  defections — some  of  the  members  went  elsewhere 
for  more  agreeable  religion.  But  I'm  thinking  that  you  could 
hardly  expect  a  human  to  hold  every  member  of  a  congre- 
gation, when  Christ  Himself  couldn't  hold  His  disciples.  We 
know,  for  it  is  written  in  God's  word,  that  when  Jesus  ac- 
cused them  of  lack  of  faith  they  fell  away  at  once — many  dis- 
ciples left  him.  But  that  did  not  change  the  Christian  re- 
ligion, nor  weaken  it,  nor  destroy  His  usefulness  as  a  teacher 
of  God's  will ;  and  I'm  thinking  that  truthful  denunciation  of 
wickedness,  of  evident  evil,  is  as  useful  as  the  pruning  hook. 
If  it  lops  off  branches  with  a  canker  at  their  hearts,  the  tree 
itself  grows  stronger  and  more  beautiful,  and  bears  better  fruit 
than  if  the  husbandman  had  held  back  in  fear  and  hesitancy 
and  allowed  the  disease  to  spread,  shutting  his  eyes  to  its  en- 
croachment. 

"  Anyway  that  was  our  great  teacher,  Christ's,  method, 
and  it  was  the  way  of  the  Prophets ;  it's  the  lesson  in  God's 
word.  You  may  gild  sin  till  it  passes  for  virtue,  but  if  a 
strong,  right-thinking  man  unmasks  it  there  it  is,  hideous  and 
revolting,  and  something  to  be  shunned. 

"  Christ  stated  Himself  that  He  had  come  not  to  call  the 
righteous,  but  sinners  to  repentance,  and  that  was  the  animat- 
ing spirit  of  our  minister's  life.  And  when  he  spoke  of  their 
sin  that  they  might  know  the  danger,  and  they  rebelled,  so 

209 


The  Lone  Furrow 


much  the  worse  for  the  sinners;  it  couldn't  hurt  the  Church 
or  the  cause,  or  anything  but  themselves.  But  it  did  hurt 
Minister.  I've  seen  him  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  because  he 
feared  that  he  was  weak,  and  not  strong  enough  to  call  them 
to  repentance. 

"  And  I'm  just  saying  this — I  think  it's  true — that  he  was 
worn  down  with  his  labors,  and  went  away  for  a  little  rest, 
and  that  with  patience  we'll  find  him  yet.  If  we  declare  his 
pastorate  abolished,  it  will  be  like  tolling  a  bell  to  his  memory. 
Minister's  friends  here  are  not  asking  this  as  a  right,  but 
just  as  a  touch  of  God's  love  and  charity.  If  we're  Christians 
in  our  hearts,  we'll  not  become  evil  through  being  satisfied 
with  supply  ministers  for  a  little  yet." 

I  think  Bain  had  another  point  or  two  annotated  on  the 
margin  of  his  memory;  if  he  had,  they  had  become  blurred, 
for  he  hesitated,  looked  about  into  the  unsympathetic  faces  of 
the  elders  in  a  big  pleading  manner,  and  sat  down. 

What  a  fine  man  Bain  is  altogether,  I  thought ;  but  still 
I  felt,  as  I  suppose  he  did  himself,  that  he  was  dealing  with 
precise,  not-to-be-disturbed,  Scotch  minds. 

After  a  little  more  discussion  it  was  carried  by  a  majority 
of  votes  that  the  Presbytery  should  be  asked  to  appoint  the 
Moderator  to  preach  the  pulpit  vacant  the  first  Sabbath. 

"  What  have  they  done  at  the  meeting?  "  the  Memsahib 
asked  when  I  returned  to  the  Hedge. 

"  Well,  they've  overmastered  poor  old  Bain,"  I  answered ; 
and  when  I  told  her  the  full  result,  the  Memsahib  said: 
"  We'll  just  keep  it  from  Jean  as  long  as  we  can.  She'll  come 
to  hear  it,  but  one  never  knows  what  may  happen — we'll  just 
put  off  the  evil  day  as  long  as  we  can,  perhaps  Providence 
will  intervene." 

2IO 


CHAPTER  XIV 

IN  hour  later  the  Memsahib  called  to  me  from 
my  study  window  where  she  stood,  a  half- 
drawn  curtain  in  her  hand,  holding  her  cheek 
against  the  soft  autumn  night  air  that  stirred 
the  pale  white  bells  of  the  nicotine  resting  its 
slender  form  against  the  veranda. 

"  Come  and  look  at  the  Madonna,  John,"  she  said ;  "  there 
is  a  most  extraordinary  light  on  the  window." 

"  It's  a  strange  effect,"  I  answered,  putting  a  hand  on 
her  shoulder ;  "  the  figures  have  the  appearance  of  being  in  a 
fiery  furnace." 

"  They're  late  putting  out  the  lights,"  she  added.  "  Ah ! 
there  they  go,"  as  the  glass  window  became  merged  in  the 
gray  wall  of  gloom  that  was  the  stone  church.  I  had  half 
turned  away  when  the  Memsahib  grasped  my  arm,  crying: 
"  It  is  lighted  up  again !  It  is  uncanny — creepy!  " 
"  It  is,"  I  confirmed. 

It  was  a  picture  that  might  have  been  conjured  by  some 
high  priest  of  theosophical  mysticism.  Now  we  could  see  the 
adorable  face  of  the  Madonna,  growing  discernible,  pale  and 
wan,  and  then  reddening  to  luridness  as  the  Babe  Saviour 
materialized  in  her  lap,  and  out  of  the  darkness  that  sur- 

211 


The  Lone  Furrow 


rounded  her,  bearded  shepherd  faces  came  one  by  one  in  a 
flickering  light  and  then  were  gone  as  though  the  owners  stole 
a  look  and  fled. 

"  Somebody  is  moving  about  with  a  candle  or  lantern," 
I  said  ;  "  the  church  is  in  darkness." 

"  It  is  like  an  omen  of  trouble  —  of  disaster,"  the  Mem- 
sahib  answered  ;  shiveringly  she  drew  a  wrap  about  her  shoul- 
ders. 

"  Oh,  look  at  it  now  !  "  I  cried  ;  the  whole  window  blazed 
red  and  angry,  and  weird  shadows  flickered  back  and  forth 
within. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  crash,  a  tinkle,  the  Babe  Christ  had 
fallen  from  the  Madonna's  lap,  and  where  He  had  lain,  a 
licking  tongue  of  flame  darted  forth  and  lapped  at  the  dark- 
ness. 

The  Memsahib  gave  a  scream  of  affright.  I  stifled  in  my 
throat  the  cry  of  fire,  and  by  the  arm  drew  her  from  the 
window.  Her  face  was  white.  "  Is  the  church  on  fire?  "  she 
gasped. 

"  For  God's  sake  keep  cool,  girl  ;  grip  yourself." 

I  clung  to  her  for  a  little,  and  speaking  with  hushed 
rapidity  went  on  :  "  Jean  !  get  her  to  her  room  at  once.  And 
the  children,  too!  yes  —  stay  with  them." 

"  I  was  thinking  of  Jean,"  she  said. 

"  Quick!  there  they  go!  " 

Hurrying  feet  beat  at  the  board  sidewalk  till  it  echoed 
like  an  alarm  drum,  and  one,  strong  lunged,  sent  a  rolling 
cry  of  "  Fi-re  !  "  as  he  ran. 

"Quick,  Allis!"  I  urged. 

Higher  up  the  street  the  runner's  cry  was  echoed,  "  Fi-re! 


212 


The  Lone  Furrow 


What  dread  import  it  carried,  how  it  startled  and  jumped 
the  nerves! 

Beside  the  Memsahib  I  raced  upstairs  and  spoke  to  the 
children,  as,  half  roused  from  slumber,  they  blinked  sleepily, 
their  faces  wrinkled  with  frightened  wonder. 

"  There's  a  little  fire  in  the  church,"  I  said ;  "  don't  be 
afraid  when  you  hear  the  reels." 

The  boy  came  running  from  his  room,  and  almost  in 
shame  I  saw  in  his  face  eager  joyous  excitement.  Reels — a 
fire !  It  was  a  kind  of  game ! 

Now  the  town  bell  clanged  angrily,  warningly,  and 
soon  there  was  the  reverberating  thunder  of  the  high-wheeled 
hose-reel,  hyphened  by  the  short  imperious  clang  of  its 
gong. 

Beyond  the  Hedge  the  street  was  a  pandemonium.  Just 
in  front  of  Grandma  Murdock's  little  lawn  black  spirits  of 
the  night  were  clawing  at  an  iron  hydrant,  and  a  long  gray 
serpent,  held  by  their  strong  arms,  writhed  and  twisted  in  the 
dust  of  the  road,  and  bit  open-mouthed  at  the  iron  fountain. 
From  my  gateway  I  watched  the  figures  writhe  and  twist 
and  struggle.  It  was  a  shadowed  group  like  the  Laocoon. 
With  hoarse  voices  they  called  to  each  other;  they  tugged 
at  the  unyielding  iron. 

With  calm  fascination  I  watched  this  hurried  fight  against 
time;  seconds  were  ages.  Now  the  fierce  red  tongues  across 
the  way  were  lapping  and  licking  at  the  night  with  hissing 
exultation  through  many  rents  in  the  glass  window,  and  be- 
hind the  holding  stones  that  were  like  the  walls  of  a  lime 
kiln,  there  was  a  crackle  of  musketry,  and  against  the  hydrant 
metal  the  copper  mouthpiece  of  the  canvas  hose  clicked  and 
clattered  unavailingly.  Would  it  never  connect! 

213 


The  Lone  Furrow 


"  Push  her  up — push  her  up — reef  on  her !  "  a  voice  bel- 
lowed, and  the  order  smothered  away  in  an  oath. 

"  Give  her  to  me!    Steady,  lads!  " 

Ah,  loved  voice  of  soothing  confidence,  of  gripping 
power!  And  the  broad  shoulders  dipping  to  the  work, 
silhouetted  bearlike  against  the  store  window  across — yes,  it 
was  Bain. 

"  All  right — run  her  out!  "  And  the  man,  hurrying  from 
the  hydrant,  laid  the  canvas  serpent  up  the  side  street. 
Against  the  gray  walls  is  a  ladder.  "  Up,  up!  " — it  is  Mal- 
colm's voice — "smash  the  window  with  an  ax!" 

The  glass  is  shivered — it  falls  a  tinkling  shower;  and 
against  the  broad  stone  ledge  of  the  rudely  opened  window 
two  men  lean,  gripping  the  handles  of  a  copper  nozzle. 

Then  they  fight.  The  little  ants  of  men,  the  Lillipu- 
tians, with  the  javelin  of  water,  thrusting  at  the  demon  of 
fire  that  snarls  and  hisses  through  all  the  front  half  of  the 
church. 

The  fire  is  coming  from  below,  from  the  basement;  the 
floor  is  all  ablaze ;  the  pews  are  tinder,  are  rows  of  fagots  to 
feed  the  hungry  maw. 

Anxiously  I  scan  the  somber  clouds  of  smoke  that  rise 
like  huge-winged  vultures  upward  and  fly  to  the  west. 

"  Thank  God !  "  I  mutter,  "  the  wind  is  from  off  our 
quarter."  For  it's  a  shingle  roof  that  tops  Lilac  Hedge,  and 
I  have  no  longing  for  a  shower  of  burning  embers  on  its  cedar, 
and  a  flood  from  the  hose.  I  have  the  garden  hose  con- 
nected and  am  throwing  a  dampening  spray  of  water  on  our 
front. 

I  bless  the  sheltering  maples;  even  as  they  beat  back  the 
scorching  sun  in  summer  days,  st>  now  they  barrier  from  us 

214 


The  Lone   Furrow 


this  fierce  flame,  their  guarding  leaves,  shriveled  up,  dying  in 
the  combat,  and  floating  away  on  gossamer  spirit  wings,  or 
falling  blackened  and  charred  to  earth. 

The  oaken  doors  of  the  church,  barrier  between  the  push- 
ing draught  of  air  and  the  sucking  flames,  eaten  into,  give  way. 
They  collapse  like  a  burnt-out  Catherine  wheel.  The  draught 
makes  hoarse  music  as  it  roars  through  the  aperture.  Driven 
before  this  fanning  wind  a  hot  blast  belches  forth  to  scorch 
the  men's  faces  who  hold  the  hose.  Insatiably  drinking  as 
though  it  lapped  oil,  fire  creeps  along  the  floor  with  the  un- 
checkable  force  of  an  incoming  tide. 

Opposite,  another  window  is  smashed,  and  the  copper  bar- 
rel of  a  second  nozzle,  throwing  a  mighty  stream,  is  thrust 
through. 

Now  the  battle  holds  even;  the  balance  tips  slowly  this 
way  and  then  that  way,  and  victory  hangs  poised  between  the 
fire  and  its  fighters. 

Suddenly  a  cry  of  fright  goes  up  from  one  of  the  win- 
dows. 

"  My  God,  boys,  look  at  that !  "  cries  Sweeny,  clinging, 
with  scorched  face,  to  the  copper  nozzle,  as  a  man  reels 
drunkenly  into  the  blaze  of  light  from  the  shadow  of  the 
great  organ.  He  has  come  up  a  little  stairway  that  leads  from 
basement  to  apse,  the  choir  passage. 

The  yellow,  sulphurous  light  shows  his  face  pale,  bluish, 
like  a  death  mask;  his  eyes  are  starting  from  his  head  with 
fright.  He  gives  a  cry  like  a  caged  animal,  and  recoiling 
from  the  scorching  heat,  falls  against  the  organ.  He  wheels, 
and  rushes  to  the  stairway  up  which  he  has  come.  Below, 
the  basement  is  a  furnace,  an  incinerating  pit  of  cremation. 
He  starts  back  with  a  cry  of  despair. 

215 


The  Lone  Furrow 


"  Help!  My  God!  "  he  cries,  and  shuts  the  blare  of  light 
from  his  eyes  with  an  arm.  He  is  dazed. 

Bain,  on  the  ladder  behind  the  two  hosemen,  bracing 
them  with  his  shoulders  to  the  window  ledge,  hears  the  fire- 
man's cry  of  fright  and  calls:  "  What  is  it,  Dick?  " 

"  Craig  is  in  the  church !  and,  God  in  heaven,  he'll  be 
burned  alive ! " 

"  Hold  steady,  lads !  "  Bain  calls ;  "  brace  against  the  wall, 
I'm  coming." 

Between  their  legs  he  creeps;  his  knees  are  on  the  stone 
ledge;  one  look,  to  balance  in  the  scales  the  chances,  then 
he  says:  "  Play  the  stream  on  the  floor;  I'm  going  after  the 
poor  lad." 

From  window  ledge  to  floor  Bain  dropped  with  panther- 
like  lightness ;  down  an  aisle  and  up  to  the  apse ;  then  his  big 
hand  lifted  the  figure  that  huddled  against  the  organ. 

"Up,  man,  up!  Stand  on  your  legs!  You're  saved! 
You're  saved! — do  you  hear?" 

His  words  carried  no  meaning  to  the  senses  numbed  by 
fear;  the  alcohol-sapped  nerves,  unstrung,  were  broken  cords. 

"  Come  with  me — you're  saved !  " 

Then  dragging  Craig  like  an  unwilling  child,  Bain  pushed 
down  the  steps,  and  as  the  flames,  ever  creeping  on  their  path 
of  destruction,  brushed  hot  against  their  forms,  Craig  shrank 
back  and  fought  like  a  maniac. 

"  You  fool !  "  Bain  roared  in  anger,  as  he  swung  from  the 
pulpit  a  red  plush  chair. 

It  was  a  fearful  hazard ;  the  floor  hung  by  its  half-burned 
sills,  a  treacherous  sieve;  the  fire  had  eaten  it  like  a  moth- 
ridden  cloth;  and  from  below  flames  darted  up  through  the 
wooden  mesh  of  its  network.  From  the  window  eager  helpers 

2l6 


The  Lone  Furrow 


waited  as  Malcolm,  now  carrying  Craig,  crept  cautiously  to- 
ward them,  sometimes  hidden  by  the  smoke. 

There  he  was,  just  beneath,  in  one  hand  the  chair.  Half 
blinded  he  placed  it  as  a  ladder  against  the  wall,  and  lifting 
Craig  to  his  breast  mounted  upward.  Sweeny's  long  arm 
stretched  far  down,  and  his  fingers  clutched  at  Craig's  shoul- 
der as  he  was  lifted  high  by  the  strong  hands  of  Malcolm. 
A  second  and  they  would  be  saved. 

Suddenly  a  stream  from  the  opposite  window  thrust 
downward  like  the  swinging  cut  of  a  scimiter  and  struck  with 
awful  force  the  chair  back  on  which  rested  Bain's  feet. 

He  reeled  outward.  Half  pulled  from  the  window  ledge, 
Sweeny's  fingers  relaxed  their  grasp,  and  Craig's  body,  lying 
across  Malcolm's  neck,  carried  him  down  like  a  stricken  bull. 
The  treacherous  charred  floor  split  like  a  drum  head,  and 
Craig  shot  through,  his  rescuer  lying  half  stunned  across  a 
sill. 

One  look  down,  and  Bain,  swinging  his  body  between  the 
floor  beams,  dropped.  A  cloud  of  smoke  swept  over  the  open- 
ing, blotting  it  from  the  vision  of  the  watchers. 

"  Holy  Mother — he's  a  goner !  "  wailed  Sweeny.  "  Hold 
her  hard,  Donald — play  the  water  fair  on  the  floor!"  and 
grasping  a  rung  of  the  ladder  he  dropped  to  the  ground,  cry- 
ing: "  Up,  one  of  you  b'ys,  an'  help  at  the  hose!  Help!  some 
of  you  fellers — the  back  door — the  back  door!  An  ax — here 
with  an  ax !  "  His  voice  was  an  agonized  yell. 

As  he  ran  around  the  church  Sweeny  called :  "  Bain's  in- 
side— in  the  basement.  Smash  the  back  door!  Here,  Mac," 
he  called,  as  one  came  running  with  an  ax,  "  hit  her !  The 
lock,  you  damn  fool ! — the  lock !  "  as  the  pole  of  the  ax  re- 
bounded from  a  heavy  oak  panel  of  the  door. 
15  217 


The  Lone   Furrow 


A  crashing  blow  and  the  cast  metal  sprayed  them  with 
iron  hail. 

Some  force  from  within  swung  the  door  as  it  loosed  from 
its  holding  bolt;  a  figure  reeled  forth,  shoulders  first,  and 
plunged  against  their  legs;  beneath  it,  clutched  in  the  mighty 
arms,  was  a  rag-doll  of  humanity,  limp,  senseless. 

"Malcolm!  B'ys,  b'ys,  he's  alive!  Merciful  powers!  the 
other  wan,  too!  Lift  him,  men,  lift  him!  "  bellowed  Sweeny. 
"Are  you  hurted,  Malcolm?"  he  continued  solicitously, 
bending  to  thrust  an  arm  under  the  brawny  Scot's  head,  and 
peering  into  the  blackened  face. 

Bain  answered  something;  it  was  a  groan,  a  struggling 
cry  for  mastery  over  his  failing  senses,  a  fight  against  uncon- 
sciousness; calling  himself  out  of  stupefying  lethargy.  Half 
consciously  he  rolled  his  body  from  off  the  man  that  was 
crushed  beneath  his  weight. 

"Where's  Doc? — heigh,  Doc  Weston!"  Sweeny  called. 

"  All  right,  Dick,"  a  voice  answered;  I'll  look  after  them. 
Here,  men,  bear  a  hand — we  must  get  them  to  some  house 
quick,"  he  added. 

"  My  house,"  I  said ;  "  it's  close  by,  and  there's  room." 

Eager  men  darted  forward,  and  Bain,  struggling  to  his 
knees,  said  wearily:  "Give  me  a — steadying  hand — some- 
one, I'm — queer — I'm  queer — I  can't  see." 

"  Youse  b'ys  look  after  Bain,"  commanded  Sweeny. 
"  Doc'll  tell  you  what's  wanted."  Then  in  futility  he  turned 
fiercely  upon  the  firemen  at  the  window.  "  Get  her  down, 
b'ys!  Damn  it,  men,  down  wit'  her — down  wit*  the  hose! — 
in  at  the  back  door;  yer  t'rowin'  water  at  the  moon,  up 
there!" 

"  I'll  hurry  on  ahead,"  I  said  to  Doctor  Weston. 
218 


The  Lone  Furrow 


"  How  is  the  fire?  "  Memsahib  asked  as  I  came  to  the 
gate. 

"  They're  beating  it  down,"  I  answered  aloud ;  and  in  an 
undertone  added,  "  Bain  is  hurt,  and  Craig  is  worse.  They're 
bringing  them  here.  What  room  will  you  put  Craig  in? 
he'll  have  to  get  to  bed — he's  bad." 

"  We  must  break  it  to  Jean,"  she  answered. 

"Yes;  speak  to  her  now — quick,  before  they  come."  A 
slow-moving  procession  of  black  figures  was  now  crossing  the 
street,  coming  to  the  Hedge. 

The  Memsahib  passed  to  the  veranda  where  Jean  was 
sitting,  and  almost  immediately  the  latter  came  to  me,  saying: 
"  I  must  have  Robert  in  my  room;  I  can  take  care  of  him 
there." 

I  felt  a  trembling  hand  on  my  arm,  there  was  a  weak 
querulous  pull  at  my  sleeve,  and  little  Teacher,  on  tiptoe, 
whispered  in  my  ear,  "  Is  he  dead,  Doctor  Cameron — is  it 
Robert  ?  Poor,  poor  Jean !  " 

Before  I  could  answer,  men,  carrying  the  injured  boy  in 
their  arms,  crowded  us  from  the  hall,  and  I  led  the  way  to 
Jean's  room. 

Craig  looked  like  a  blackened  corpse  on  a  bier,  as  the 
men  laid  his  form  tenderly  upon  the  sncwy  sheets. 

Bain  had  pulled  himself  together.  "  I'm  not  needing  a 
bed,  Cameron,"  he  said;  "  I'll  just  rest  a  bit — I'm  thinking 
I'll  be  no  good  at  the  fire." 

MacFarlane,  who  had  steadied  Bain  as  he  limped  to  the 
house,  looked  at  the  big  man  with  a  power  of  hero  worship  in 
his  eyes. 

"  I'm  afraid  the  poor  lad's  done  for  entirely,"  Bain 
wailed.  "  I'll  wait  to  hear  what  Weston  says." 

219 


The  Lone  Furrow 


In  her  room  Jean  was  sitting  beside  the  bed,  her  face 
paler  than  ever,  waiting  for  the  verdict,  as  Doctor  Weston 
examined  the  battered  body  of  her  brother. 

I  could  do  nothing  but  help  the  Memsahib  bring  such 
things  as  the  Doctor  from  time  to  time  called  for  in  a  quick, 
low  voice.  Sheets  were  torn  into  bandages,  sweet  oil  and 
vaseline  requisitioned,  and  even  then,  when  the  Doctor's  skill 
had  done  what  it  could,  his  verdict  was  one  of  indecision. 
Craig  was  not  dead — that  was  all.  There  was  evidently  some 
serious  injury  though  —  an  unlocated  fracture  or  internal 
hurt.  Then  Bain's  wounds  were  dressed. 

During  a  lull  in  the  physical  salvage  within  the  house,  I 
stood  watching  the  dragon  of  destruction  consume  the  bones 
of  the  church. 

Tongues  of  fire,  eating  through  the  roof,  lapped  angrily 
at  grotesque  smoke  forms  that  fled  heavenward.  At  times 
there  was  the  boom  of  falling  timbers  or  a  dislodged  stone. 
The  chimneys  fell  with  the  grinding  crash  of  an  avalanche, 
sending  a  myriad  cloud  of  starlike  glowing  cinders  up  from 
between  the  walls. 

At  first  the  steeple  rose  like  a  black  marble  monolith ;  then, 
glazed  by  the  lurid  vermilion,  its  tin-shingled  sides  glittered 
as  a  golden  pagoda,  to  pass  in  transformation,  as  the  flame- 
tongues  licked  its  bones  to  a  skeleton,  into  a  tapering  network 
of  fireline  design ;  a  giant  fern,  its  fronds  diamond-lighted  by 
sun-kissed  dewdrops.  It  was  weirdly  beautiful  penciled 
against  the  black  sky  in  running  letters  of  red  and  yellow. 
Hissing  serpents  darted  up  its  steep  incline,  vomiting  particles 
of  fire  that,  carried  by  the  wind,  glinted  like  stars,  and  then 
were  swallowed  up  in  the  night.  But  presently  its  wooden 
structure  was  consumed  by  the  monster  that  roared  as  he  fed ; 

220 


The  Lone  Furrow 


it  swayed  drunkenly,  and  then  came  down  between  the  stone 
walls  of  the  kiln  that  belched  upward  like  a  volcano. 

"  I'm  going  to  make  hot  coffee  for  the  firemen,"  Mem- 
sahib  said,  coming  to  me.  "  They'll  be  wet  and  tired,  and 
will  need  something.  The  coffee  will  be  better  than  liquor 
for  them." 

I  knew  what  she  meant.  Because  of  Munro  and  his  cru- 
sade against  drinking,  some  of  those  who  toiled  across  the 
way,  had  been  won  from  intemperance,  but  this  would  be  an 
hour  of  trial  for  them.  The  village  was  hospitable ;  the  tav- 
ern-keeper generous  to  a  fault;  in  mistaken  kindness  there 
would  be  open  bar  for  the  gallant  men. 

"  Will  you  go,  husband,  and  ask  the  lads  to  come  as  they 
can — a  few  at  a  time?"  the  Memsahib  asked.  "I'll  put  a 
lunch  on  the  dining  table — they  can  help  themselves;  and 
Sarah  will  keep  plenty  of  coffee  steaming  hot.  Tell  them 
that,  husband,  please,  steaming  hot." 

"  Wise  little  woman,"  I  praised,  patting  her  cheek;  "  and 
don't  forget  Jean.  Slip  up  and  give  her  a  word  of  encourage- 
ment." 

I  gave  the  firemen  Memsahib's  message ;  and  as  the  chance 
came  they  hurried  across,  singly  and  in  twos  and  threes,  for 
the  steaming  bowl  that  was  better  than  liquor. 

Once  as  I  stood  in  the  study  I  heard  a  rustle  on  the  stair- 
way, and  Jean  came  into  the  room. 

"  I've  come  to  thank  you,  Mr.  Bain,"  she  said,  holding 
out  her  hand  to  Malcolm.  "  The  Doctor  has  been  telling  me 
how  you  risked  your  life  for  my  brother.  You  are  a  brave, 
good  man." 

She  turned  away  quickly.  Passing  me  I  could  see  in  the 
lamplight  tears  glistening  on  her  pale  cheeks. 

221 


The  Lone  Furrow 


Teacher  had  disappeared ;  I  thought  perhaps  she  was  in 
Jean's  room  helping  the  doctor.  But  now  she  slipped  into  the 
house  like  a  wan,  frightened  little  hare — a  very  damp  drag- 
gled hare;  not  only  her  skirts  dripping  wet,  but  her  face  a 
course  for  a  river  of  tears. 

"  Where  have  you  been,  Miss  Harkett?  "  I  asked. 

"Across  the  way.  Oh,  Doctor  Cameron,  it's  dreadful! 
The  organ  is  destroyed,  and  we'll  never  get  another  one — we 
haven't  the  money!  " 

"  Don't  trouble  about  that,  Miss  Harkett — we  can't  help 
it." 

"  We  might  have  helped  it.  It's  like  a  visitation  of  the 
wrath  of  God  for  all  the  dissension  and  falling  from  grace." 

"  Well,  we  can't  help  that  either ;  but  you  can  help  getting 
soaked  with  water,  and  catching  your  death  of  cold — that's 
very  unwise." 

"  I  just  don't  care,  Doctor  Cameron ;  I'm  ready  to  give 
up !  "  and  the  little  body  gave  way  to  a  passionate  flood  of 
tears. 

"  Come,  Miss  Harkett,  you  must  change  your  wet  trap- 
pings; Allis  will  give  you  something  dry  to  put  on.  You're 
killing  yourself  with  excitement;  we  must  put  you  to  bed." 

I  called  the  Memsahib — who  took  Teacher  to  her  room. 

When  the  Memsahib  came  back  she  said :  "  Was  there 
ever  such  a  conscience-troubled  goose?  She's  now  working 
herself  into  a  fever,  saying  that  it's  all  her  fault,  and  the 
organ's  fault,  and  Heaven  knows  what." 

"The  organ's  fault!  the  excitement  has  unbalanced  her; 
what  is  she  talking  about?  " 

"  That  God  is  angry  because  the  organ  drove  Mrs.  Paisly 
and  old  Jimmie  Johnston  out  of  the  congregation." 

222 


The  Lone  Furrow 


"  She's  just  upset,"  I  answered.  "  The  organ  has  been 
like  a  child  to  her,  and  its  destruction  has  unnerved  her. 
She'll  be  all  right  in  the  morning.  Give  her  a  cup  of  hot 
coffee,  and  cover  her  up ;  Nature  will  put  her  all  right." 

One  of  the  last  to  come  for  coffee  was  Sweeny;  and 
even  then,  with  two  hours  of  heroic  toil  crusted  on  him,  his 
eyes  were  still  big  with  the  light  of  battle,  his  gaunt  frame, 
whipcord  and  bone  and  parchment,  still  of  elastic  springiness. 

He  tilted  a  cup  at  his  lean  lips,  and  its  seething  contents 
were  gone. 

"B'ys!"  he  ejaculated,  pluralizing  my  oneness,  for  we 
were  alone,  and  dropping  the  cup  back  to  its  saucer  with  an 
emphatic  clatter,  "  yon  was  devil's  work." 

"  The  fire?  "  I  questioned,  startled. 

"  Faith,  I  don't  know  about  that,  but  the  knockin'  down 
of  Bain  was  fair  murder." 

"  They  said  it  was  an  accident." 

"Accident  be  damned!  It  was  murder,  I  tell  you;  an' 
God's  judgment  on  the  Divil's  spawn — curse  his  black  heart! 
— that  took  the  cowardly  chanst." 

"  Who  was  it?  "  I  asked,  my  voice  dropping  to  an  invol- 
untary whisper. 

"Who  was  it?  Who's  been  makin'  his  boasts  that  he'd 
git  even  wid  Bain  for  throwin'  him  in  the  pig  sty? — Archie 
MacKillop.  I  seen  it — I  seen  the  devil's  face  acrost  in  the 
windie  when  Malcolm  and  Bob  dropped.  I  tell  ye,  man, 
Archie's  eyes  was  fair  jumpin'  from  their  sockets.  The  curse 
o'  God  on  such  as  that  black-hearted  coward.  B'ys,  b'ys,  b'ys ! 
but  it  was  cowardly!  " 

"  We  must  investigate,"  I  said,  "  we  can't  let  it  go  by. 

If  Craig  dies " 

223 


The  Lone   Furrow 


"  You'll  never  prove  it — damn  him ! — never.  He'll  claim 
that  he  was  helpin' — that  he  was  keepin'  the  fire  down  on  the 
floor — that  the  pressure  was  too  strong  fer  him.  The  Divil 
just  thro  wed  the  chanst  his  way  an'  he  took  it — the  black- 
hearted skunk!  But  if  ever  I  git  a  chanst  at  him,  may  the 
Lord  forgive  me,  an'  stay  me  hand  short  of  murder.  B'ys, 
b'ys !  To  throw  a  man  to  his  death — it  was  near  his  death — 
that  was  riskin'  his  life  to  save  a  rapscallion  that  wasn't 
worth  goin'  into  that  pit  of  fire  for!  I'm  goin'  back;  we've 
got  her  under  control — the  big  stone  walls  saved  themselves, 
and  that's  about  all  that's  left." 

Sweeny's  words  filled  me  with  unutterable  depression.  An 
accident  and  the  possible  loss  of  life,  no  matter  how  useless 
that  life,  was  sad  to  contemplate,  but  that  here  in  our  little 
village  of  law  and  order  we  had  one  a  cowardly  murderer, 
was  a  thought  seeming  to  drag  us  all  down  in  the  human 
scale.  Even  the  elevating  example  of  Bain's  heroic  effort 
failed  to  neutralize  this  dreadful  glimpse  of  depravity. 

I  sought  to  escape  from  these  things  of  felony  by  shutting 
the  door  of  the  dining  room  behind  me,  like  locking  them  in 
a  cell,  as  I  passed  to  the  study  where  Bain  was  resting  on  a 
couch. 

"  Are  you  feeling  better,  Malcolm  ?  "  I  asked,  drawing  a 
chair  beside  him. 

"  I'm  not  bad,"  he  answered ;  "  my  eyes  trouble  a  bit,  but 
I  can  see.  I  was  afraid  that  I'd  been  blinded.  Everything 
was  black  when  I  got  out — before  I  got  out;  I  just  groped 
my  way  to  that  door.  I  knew  the  road  well — I'd  been  over 
it  often — or  I'd  never  have  made  the  open.  But  the  door 
was  locked — Oh !  " 

Bain  coughed. 

224 


The  Lone  Furrow 


"  My  lungs  are  fair  scorched,  I'm  thinking,"  he  added 
apologetically.  "  When  I  found  the  door  fast  I  thought  it 
was  all  up,  for  I  hadn't  much  left  in  the  way  of  strength.  I 
just  heaved  against  it  when  they  smashed  the  lock  and  tumbled 
out  head  first." 

"  You  did  a  brave  thing,  Malcolm,  to  go  down  into  that 
inferno — to  the  basement  after  Robert." 

"  You  mustn't  make  too  much  of  it,  man,"  he  answered, 
with  plaintive  seriousness ;  "  for,  would  you  believe  it,  I  was 
just  in  a  funk  all  the  time." 

"  You  acted  like  it,"  I  declared  sarcastically. 

"It  wasn't  bad  below.  I  just  looked  down  where  poor 
Craig  had  dropped  and  the  fire  wasn't  bad  there  at  all,  it  was 
mainly  in  the  other  end  of  the  kirk.  And  I  thought  I'd  make 
the  back  door  of  the  basement  easier  than  I'd  come  up  through 
the  window." 

"  Malcolm,  you're  just  telling  lies,"  I  said.  "  You  were 
thinking  of  nothing  but  saving  Craig,  and  you  knew  you 
were  taking  the  shortest  kind  of  a  chance  on  your  own  life. 
How  did  it  happen  that  the  boy  was  there  at  all;  do  you 
know?" 

"  That's  been  bothering  me,"  Malcolm  answered.  "  I  saw 
him  at  the  meeting,  and  I  was  a  bit  shamed,  for,  poor  chap,  I 
could  see  he  was  the  worse  for  the  drink.  He  was  sitting  over 
in  a  corner  near  the  furnace.  I  thought  at  the  time  he  was 
asleep,  and  I  was  glad  of  it.  He  must  have  slipped  down  on 
the  bench,  or  perhaps  to  the  floor.  Coming  out  from  the 
meeting  everybody  was  talking  about  what  had  been  done, 
and  he  was  overlooked,  I  suppose.  I'm  sure  I  forgot  all  about 
him." 

"  And  old  Tommy  the  caretaker  is  that  blind  he  would 
225 


The  Lone   Furrow 


never  see  anything  when  he  was  putting  out  the  lights,"  I 
added. 

"  No,  he  wouldn't.  I  suppose  the  lad  woke  up  with  the 
fire  all  about  him ;  that's  how  he  was  like  a  horse  in  a  burning 
stable,  just  fair  crazy.  And  when  he  rushed  up  the  choir 
stairs  there  he  was  cut  off  again." 

"  The  fire  must  have  started  from  the  furnace,"  I  said. 

"  We'll  never  know  that.  It's  not  going  regular  yet,  and 
old  Tommy  put  on  a  wood  fire  to  take  the  chill  off  for  the 
meeting.  Most  likely  he  dropped  a  coal  among  the  wood — 
there  was  some  piled  beside  the  furnace,  I  saw." 

"  Well,  the  cause  is  nothing  now,  the  effect — the  terrible 
result,  dwarfs  that  into  insignificance.  Your  miraculous  escape 
makes  us  thankful  that  it  is  no  worse,"  I  said. 

Bain  drew  a  long  breath  that  ended  in  a  cough.  "  It's 
the  smoke,"  he  said ;  "  I  can  taste  it." 

A  grotesque  smile  flitted  over  his  lips — grotesque,  indeed 
fiercely  droll  he  looked,  the  stubble  of  his  singed  beard  and 
mustache  standing  out  stiffly  like  the  growth  on  a  tramp's 
face. 

"  I'm  thinking,"  he  said,  "  that  they'll  not  preach  the  pul- 
pit vacant  come  Sabbath — the  Lord's  ahead  of  them.  Per- 
haps," he  added,  "  though  I  shouldn't  say  it,  it's  His  hand  we 
saw  manifest  to-night.  He  worketh  in  mysterious  ways,  and 
I  have  a  feeling  that  we'll  have  Munro  back  before  the  pul- 
pit's ready  for  an  occupant." 

"  Teacher  thinks  it's  a  judgment  on  the  congregation  for 
its  dissension.  The  members  will  have  to  unite  now,  anyway, 
over  rebuilding  the  kirk." 

"  It'll  mean  a  bit  of  debt,  too,"  Bain  sighed.  "  What's 
it  like  now,"  he  asked,  as  I  came  back  from  a  look  at  the  fire. 

226 


The  Lone  Furrow 


"  It  is  out,"  I  answered ;  "  just  smoldering." 

Almost  immediately  the  body  of  firemen  came  to  the  house 
to  ask  after  Bain,  and  report  that  it  was  now  considered  safe 
to  go  home,  leaving  one  reel  and  a  guard  over  the  smoldering 
ruins. 

Backed  by  Doctor  Weston's  orders,  I  persuaded  Bain  to 
take  a  bed  for  the  night  in  my  house. 

All  through  the  dark  hours,  dark  in  every  way,  we 
fought  in  Jean's  room  the  silent  battle,  heritage  of  the  fierce 
fire. 

One,  two,  three,  four  o'clock — still,  silent,  mysterious 
hours;  hours  in  which  disaster  grows — like  shadows — over- 
masteringly  strong;  hours  to  steep  one's  spirit  in  despair. 
Sometimes  I  sat  in  my  study,  thinking  dismal  thoughts  in  uni- 
son with  the  monotonous  tick-tick,  tick-tick  of  the  mantel 
clock,  of  how  our  simple  life  at  the  Hedge  had  drifted  into 
tragedy,  and  its  sinister  whisper  of  inhuman  crime.  Where 
would  it  end  ? 

Above  my  head  was  a  muffled  sound  of  feet  where  a 
life  hung  in  the  balance;  and  across  the  road  smoking 
ruins  cut  jagged  lines  against  a  starlit  sky.  Even  the  leaves 
on  the  maples  were  shriveled  to  death  by  the  destroying 
heat. 

At  times,  with  almost  noiseless  steps,  the  Memsahib  came 
to  me,  begging  that  I  would  go  to  rest.  But  she  would  not 
leave  Jean,  and  so  I,  too,  could  not  sleep. 

Early  the  street  filled  with  curious  villagers,  solemn  of 
face,  who  moved  about  like  convicts  of  a  chain-gang;  on  their 
spirits  a  weight  of  disaster  that  unconsciously  suggested  some- 
thing beyond  the  ordinary  mundane  happenings  of  life.  The 
church  destroyed  seemed  to  have  removed  the  guarding  care 

227 


The  Lone  Furrow 


of  God.  They  were  sheep  without  a  fold ;  restless,  magnify- 
ing the  material  loss  into  a  spiritual  deprivation. 

We  of  the  Hedge  were  almost  too  much  depressed  for 
words.  I  had  not  slept  at  all. 

On  the  lawn  Jean  came  to  me  saying:  "  I  feel  that  I  shall 
choke — I  want  to  fill  my  lungs  with  air." 

"  How  is  Robert?  "  I  asked ;  "  any  change  for  the  better? 
has  anything  been  done — can  anything  be  done  ?  " 

"  We  seem  just  helpless,"  she  answered  bitterly.  "  He 
hovers,  the  doctor  says.  His  body  lies  there  on  the  cot, 
broken,  disfigured ;  I  can  stretch  out  my  hand  and  touch  it ; 
but  the  poor  boy  himself,  his  spirit,  I  cannot  find.  I  can  just 
pray  to  his  Maker  for  mercy  for  him.  The  prayer  of  the 
righteous  availeth  much,  it  is  written  that  way,  Doctor  Cam- 
eron, but  what  are  mine — will  they  be  answered — will  they 
avail  ?  In  my  heart  I  cry,  '  Why  am  I  tried  ?  '  All  that  I  love 
is  blighted,  and  in  despair,  I  cry  out  against  God's  vengeance. 
And  then  I  pray,  pleading:  '  Merciful  God!  lessen  the  load 
— spare  my  brother — give  me  back  my  husband.'  " 

"  You  are  overtired  Jean,"  I  ventured,  soothingly.  "  Rob- 
ert is  certainly  now  brought  close  into  the  hand  of 
God,  and  you  must  drive  from  your  mind  these  doubts,  these 
questionings." 

"  I  try — I  plead — I  offer  contrition ;  I  will  never  doubt, 
I  will  force  myself  to  resignation  if  my  brother  be  spared. 
He  isn't  ready.  If  he  dies  now  will  he  be  punished  for  all 
eternity  for  the  sin  that  was  not  his — that  had  been  handed 
down  to  him  ?  " 

"We  mustn't  discuss  it,  Jean — not  now;  we  must  just 
try  to  save  his  life." 

I  was  glad  when  the  children  came  eagerly  from  the 
228 


The  Lone  Furrow 


house,  bringing  their  young  lives  as  a  revivifying  tonic  to  our 
somber  mood. 

They  were  materialists,  their  vision  short-focused  to  re- 
ality; the  spiritual,  the  metaphysical,  everything  was  elimi- 
nated but  the  actuality  of  the  fire.  It  was  a  building  that  had 
been  burned;  and  the  wondrousness  of  the  hose  reel  that 
threw  \vater  without  pumping  filled  them  with  astonishment. 
Their  philosophy  was  healthy.  Somehow  it  drew  us,  Jean 
and  myself,  closer  to  the  air,  and  the  sunlight,  and  the  sky, 
and  the  trees  which  were  still  with  us,  though  not  clothed 
as  they  had  been  yesterday. 

Kippie,  youngest,  having  traveled  the  shortest  journey  into 
life's  field  of  care,  was  loquacious;  while  Laddie,  his  enthu- 
siasm roused  by  the  doings  of  the  night,  declared  he  was  going 
to  be  a  fireman  when  he  grew  up.  And  he  was  going  to  be  a 
hero  like  everybody  was  saying  Mr.  Bain  was;  only  in  his 
book  the  hero  was  a  man  who  killed  people  and  then  married 
the  princess.  Then  how  was  Mr.  Bain  a  hero  if  he  didn't  kill 
anybody  ? 

Teacher  had  not  appeared ;  and  presently  when  Memsahib 
joined  us  she  struggled  in  vain  to  smooth  a  troubled  look  from 
her  face. 

"  Miss  Harkett  is  not  very  well  this  morning,"  Memsahib 
said ;  "  she  has  caught  cold,  and  is  nervously  excited.  She's 
had  trouble  with  her  heart  before — I  must  have  Doctor  Wes- 
ton  look  at  her  when  he  comes." 

"  I  thought  he  was  here  still,"  I  said. 

"  He  went  home  for  breakfast — I  couldn't  induce  him  to 
remain.  Breakfast  is  ready  now.  Try  to  eat  something, 
dear,"  she  said,  putting  her  hand  on  Jean's  shoulder.  "  Mal- 
colm is  with  Robert,  and  I'm  going  to  remain,  too,  until  you 

229 


The  Lone  Furrow 


have  had  something  to  eat.  Doctor  Weston  has  telegraphed 
to  York  for  a  nurse,"  she  added  turning  to  me,  "  and  she 
should  be  here  by  nine  o'clock." 

"  I  can't  eat,"  Jean  answered  wearily ;  "  I  should  choke — 
I'm  going  up  to  my  brother.  You  have  breakfast  with  your 
family,  Allis." 

The  Memsahib's  breakfast  consisted  in  taking  a  cup  of 
tea  and  toast,  and  her  own  homemade  currant  jelly  up  to 
Miss  Harkett. 

Even  with  the  children  strung  like  a  garland  of  flowers 
about  the  table  it  was  a  gloomy  breakfast.  I,  tortured  over 
the  vicissitudes  of  Lilac  Hedge,  drank  my  coffee  in  a  hospital 
for  crushed  bodies  and  stricken  souls. 

Presently  I  heard  the  heavy  step  of  Doctor  Weston  on  the 
stairway,  and  after  a  time  he  came  down  to  where  I  sat  in  the 
study. 

"  You  look  tired,  Doctor,"  I  said. 

"  Yes,  I  haven't  had  my  clothes  off  for  forty-eight  hours. 
I  had  two  long  drives  to  patients  in  the  country,  night  before 
last — that's  the  joy  of  a  country  doctor's  life — and  last  night, 
of  course,  we  were  all  busy." 

"  How  are  your  two  patients?"  I  asked. 

"  I  have  three  now.  Bain  is  all  right — at  least  he's  burned 
and  bruised  enough  to  keep  weaklings  like  you  or  me  in  bed, 
I  dare  say,  but  he's  very  much  of  a  horse — at  any  rate  he  can 
go  home  now.  I'm  altogether  lost  over  Craig.  He's  badly 
injured  in  some  part  of  his  anatomy.  He's  still  unconscious, 
but  that's  just  as  well!  that  part  of  it  is  chiefly  due  to  ex- 
haustion— his  system  has  been  gutted  by  alcoholic  fire  till 
his  spirit  lives  in  a  half-furnished  tenement,  so  he  has  just 
collapsed.  But  I'm  fearful  that  there's  an  injury  to  the  spine, 

230 


The  Lone  Furrow 


probably  when  he  fell.  I'm  going  to  send  to  York  for  Doctor 
Colton  for  a  consultation." 

"  Can  you  give  us  any  encouragement  at  all  about 
Craig?  "  I  asked;  "  something  for  his  sister  to  build  on — she 
needs  it,  poor  body." 

"  I  know — I  understand.  You  may  be  sure  I'll  fight 
pretty  hard  for  his  life.  You'll  be  justified  in  offering  her  en- 
couragement— you  may  say  I'm  very  hopeful;  that  will  be 
something.  But  I'm  concerned  over  Miss  Harkett." 

I  started.  There  was  a  serious  look  in  his  solemn  gray 
eyes  that  frightened  me. 

"  Teacher! — isn't  it  just  a  little  cold?  " 

"  Yes,  a  cold — but  not  a  little  one.  Her  heart  is  going 
like  a  trip  hammer ;  and  nerves !  they're  like  floss  silk,  vibrat- 
ing at  every  touch — it's  a  wonder  she  didn't  drop  last  night. 
She  always  was  a  fretty  little  body;  the  sweetest  creature  in 
the  world,  and  the  most  conscientious  Christian — her  real 
disease  is  organ  on  the  brain." 

"  I  know,"  I  interjected ;  "  fretting  about  the  destroyed 
church  organ." 

"  Yes.  You'd  better  get  her  home,  Camei'on — she'll  be 
more  contented.  She's  worrying  over  being  a  trouble  here 
to  Mrs.  Cameron.  I'll  go  my  rounds  and  come  back." 


231 


CHAPTER   XV 

|HE  conflagration  had  left  a  governing  influ- 
ence upon  the  village.  The  fire  seemed  to 
have  lapped  at  the  uncharitable  hearts  of  the 
gossips,  incinerating  the  venom,  leaving  what 
little  of  gold  there  was,  and  a  better  spirit 
breathed  in  the  atmosphere. 

Church  matters  had  taken  a  wider  scope,  touching  the 
adherents  in  their  most  vital  spot — the  pocket ;  dwarfing  the 
question  of  a  pastor,  subduing  the  enmity  to  Neil  Munro ;  on 
everybody's  tongue  was  the  paramount  query,  Where  was  the 
money  to  come  from  to  rebuild  the  church  and  supply  the 
organ  ? 

Wise  old  Bain  saw  his  opportunity  and  seized  upon  it 
with  big-hearted  avidity.  He  confided  to  me  his  plan  to 
utilize  this  secular  difficulty  in  cornering  the  spiritual  market. 
"  The  loudest  exhorters  will  be  the  most  near  over  con- 
tributing," said  Malcolm.  "  They'll  figure  that  speech  is 
golden  and  offer  it  instead  of  the  baser  coin.  They'll  be  full 
of  wise  counsel  over  raising  the  wind,  but  they'll  pull  a  long 
face  of  hard  times,  smut  in  wheat,  murrin  in  the  cattle — 
heavens  knows  what  all,  to  keep  from  giving.  I'll  just  let 
them  dawdle  along  until  I  see  they're  fair  stuck,  then  I'll 

232 


The  Lone  Furrow 


give  a  round  sum  out  of  hand,  and  I'll  loan  them  more  at  a 
low  interest — on  condition,  aye,  on  condition." 

Without  asking,  I  knew  what  the  condition  would  be — a 
longer  waiting  for  Munro's  return. 

The  preaching  vacant  of  the  pulpit  would  now  be  some- 
what incongruous;  the  pulpit  was  not  only  vacant,  but  non- 
existent. The  town  hall  was  improvised  as  a  kirk;  an  ill- 
befitting  temple  within  which  to  induct  a  new  pastor.  The 
square,  unadorned,  uncarpeted  Municipal  Chamber,  cold  and 
cheerless,  was  enough  to  damp  the  ardor  of  even  Minister 
Grey.  The  austere  Scots  could  well  take  it  that  God  would 
feel  their  presence  there  as  well  as  in  their  own  orthodox  edi- 
fice, but  this  unusual  function  would  lose  its  impressive  so- 
lemnity enacted  in  the  town  hall,  and  religion  to  the  Cal- 
vinists,  shorn  of  its  profound  attributes,  was  something  akin 
to  the  gimcrack  hurly-burly  of  the  Salvationists. 

The  first  Sabbath's  gathering  for  worship  in  the  town 
hall  completely  divorced  Minister  Grey's  aspirations  from 
the  desire  of  the  majority.  His  peevish,  squeaky  voice  rose  fit- 
fully in  the  acoustically  ill-balanced  chamber.  He  was  like 
a  dreary  locust  rasping  in  a  barren  field. 

A  melodeon  had  been  impressed  into  the  song  service  of 
the  Lord,  and,  Teacher  being  ill,  a  volunteer  substitute,  in 
the  person  of  a  very  nervous  girl,  obtained. 

I  think  even  the  stanchest  elder  felt  that  a  very  wretched 
testimony  had  been  offered  up  to  the  Creator  that  day.  The 
chairs  and  the  benches  screeched  on  the  hardwood  floor,  wail- 
ing the  irritating  treble  of  little  Minister  Grey  to  nothing- 
ness. Resignation  to  the  will  of  God  was  his  theme,  inter- 
preted from  the  text:  "  The  wall  of  Jerusalem  is  broken  down 
and  the  gates  thereof  are  burned  with  fire." 
16  233 


The   Lone   Furrow 


It  was  all  about  that  the  kirk  had  been  destroyed,  as 
Jerusalem  had,  because  of  sin,  and,  somehow  it  appeared  from 
the  Minister's  exhortation  that  he,  like  Nehemiah,  would 
build  it  up  again,  bringing  the  Lord's  favor  to  bear  upon  the 
work. 

I  was  thinking  he  would  have  a  more  difficult  task  bring- 
ing all  the  Mac-Somethings  freely  to  the  work,  than  Nehe- 
miah had  had  with  the  men  of  Judah. 

I  fancy  that  everyone  felt  as  I  did,  that  while  we  might 
subdue  our  spirits  to  acceptance  of  such  trials  as  the  burning 
of  the  kirk,  it  was  just  a  little  too  much  to  take  on  the  trying 
yoke  of  Minister  Grey  for  an  indefinite  period. 

I  surmised  that  after  that  Sabbath,  Bain's  prophetic  hope 
that  Munro  would  occupy  the  rebuilt  pulpit  would  material- 
ize so  far  as  Minister  Grey  was  concerned. 

The  consultation  with  Doctor  Colton  over  Craig's  con- 
dition left  the  case  somewhat  as  it  was  before — problematical. 
The  boy  had  regained  consciousness,  but  an  indicated  paral- 
ysis of  the  lower  limbs  confirmed  Doctor  Weston's  hurried 
diagnosis  that  the  spine  had  suffered.  The  evident  injuries, 
burns  and  bruises,  were  unimportant,  though  they  had  added 
in  a  shock  to  the  nervous  system. 

Dr.  Colton's  advice  had  been  to  wait  for  time's  develop- 
ment ;  nursing  and  care  would  cure  the  patient  of  everything 
but  the  suspected  bone  fracture,  whether  of  the  spine  or  hip 
joints. 

So  at  the  Hedge  we  were  in  a  state  of  solicitous  suspense. 
I  think  that,  strangely  enough,  the  care  of  her  brother  bene- 
fited Jean.  The  nerves,  fed  by  action,  worked  more  smoothly 
than  they  had  when  irritated  by  the  brooding  brain. 

That  Jean's  nature  was  altogether  lovable  I  came  to 

234 


The  Lone   Furrow 


see  more  clearly  under  these  conditions.  Perhaps  it  was  that 
unselfish  subjection  of  her  own  affliction  to  her  brother's  needs 
had  brought  its  own  physical  reward.  It  had  been  said  in  the 
village — it  must  have  been  iterated  and  reiterated  many 
times,  for  I  had  heard  it — that  Jean  was  cold,  unsympathetic, 
selfish,  in  that  she  watched  her  brother's  slow,  alcoholic  sui- 
cide with  passive  indifference;  that  because  he  was  a 
drunkard  she  drew  the  fine  linen  of  irreproachableness  across 
her  eyes  that  she  might  not  see  the  unpleasant  vision  of  a 
relative  disgraced;  that  she  avoided  him  out  of  a  heartless 
antipathy  to  her  legitimate  duty ;  that,  figuratively,  like  Cain, 
she  said :  "  Am  I  my  brother's  keeper?  " 

No  one  had  ever  heard  her  reproach  Robert;  no  one  had 
heard  her  speak  of  his  infirmity.  Sphinxlike  she  had  sat 
through  the  years  of  his  retrogression,  unspeaking,  immutably 
silent  in  tongue  and  eye.  Where  she  should  have  wept  tears 
of  bitterness,  she  gave  no  sign. 

It  was  thus  the  village  had  summed  up  its  judgment  of 
not-understanding,  superficially  reading  the  outer  page,  igno- 
rant of  the  bitter  story  of  suffering  and  sorrow  that  was  en- 
graved in  the  heart  of  the  sister. 

Now  we  of  the  Hedge  had  opportunity  to  observe  the 
world  of  love  this  woman — herself  needing  sustainment  from 
sympathy — poured  out  like  a  river  of  wine  over  the  poor 
wrecked  lad  who  lay  helpless,  his  big  eyes  watching  her  as  a 
babe  follows  the  movements  of  a  mother. 

Grandma  Murdoch  came  many  times  and  forced  Jean, 
with  gentle  words  of  reproach,  to  go  out  into  the  sunlight,  or 
to  lie  down  for  a  little  rest  in  the  day,  or  to  seek  sleep  at 
night;  and  the  Memsahib  did  the  same.  And  I  brought  my 
authority  to  bear  to  the  same  end. 

235 


The  Lone  Furrow 


Sisterly  love !  yea,  I  came  to  know  that  it  was  as  great,  as 
deep,  as  abiding  as  the  love  that  is  the  theme  for  bards,  as  I 
watched  Jean  in  these  sad  days. 

Of  course,  from  the  very  first  there  was  the  question  of 
the  part  alcohol  was  to  play  in  the  treatment  of  the  patient. 
Dr.  Weston  was  an  unusually  common-sense  practitioner, 
brushing  aside  theoretical  formulas  in  favor  of  his  loved  as- 
sistant Nature.  "  Wait,  have  patience,"  was  engraved  in  his 
quiet,  thoughtful  blue-gray  eyes.  "  No  violence  to  the  good 
Dame,  my  masters,  but  just  a  little  humoring  of  her,  and  a 
little  of  learning  lessons  from  her."  I  am  sure  he  talked  like 
this  to  himself. 

However,  he  said  of  Craig:  "  His  system  will  crave  the 
food  it  has  fed  upon " 

"  Is  it  a  food,  Doctor?  "  I  asked ;  "  I  have  read  that— 

"  Yes,"  he  interrupted,  "  one  may  read  himself  to  destruc- 
tion. I  will  admit  that  alcohol  is  a  bad  food,  but  just  now 
we  will  bend  it  to  our  needs.  The  patient  will  require  a 
very,  very  little." 

If  I  regretted  this,  hoping  that  perhaps  a  chance  had  come 
to  essay  a  cure  of  Robert's  diseased  appetite,  Jean  rebelled. 
She  pleaded  writh  the  Doctor,  argued  with  him,  besought 
him,  saying:  "  It  is  a  poison  that  searches  out  the  innermost 
recess,  the  niche  in  which  the  soul  has  its  existence.  Cannot 
his  physical  strength  be  sustained  except  at  the  cost  of  his 
eternal  life?  You  say  he  may  recover;  but  to  come  back 
to  a  life  that  is  a  living  death —  It  is  hard  to  say  it  I 
know,  God  must  forgive  me,  but  this  would  be  worse 
than  if  he  died  with  the  renunciation  of  strong  drink  as 
atonement." 

The  doctor  wavered.    "  It's  risk)',"  he  said,  in  his  corn- 
236 


The  Lone  Furrow 


mon-sense  manner — "  it's  risky  to  switch  the  human  system 
abruptly." 

"  But  if  ever  we  are  to  look  for  help  from  God  in  the 
saving  of  my  brother  it  must  be  now.  If  He  sends  blessings 
in  disguise  we  are  justified  in  accepting  this  evident  affliction 
as  such.  Will  you  try,  doctor?  Will  you  try  without  the 
liquor  and  watch,  and  when  you  say  that  it  is  unsafe,  that 
Robert's  life  is  imperiled,  I  will  bow  to  the  inevitable — I 
will  myself  give  him  this  soul-drug  that  you  call  brandy." 

Dr.  Weston  yielded  reluctantly;  and  Jean  labored  like  a 
slave  over  preparing  the  substituted  stimulant  that  was  also  a 
true  food,  the  expressed  beef's  blood. 

That  day  after  Jean's  impassioned  plea  to  Doctor  Weston, 
I  had  from  her  own  lips  the  refutation  of  the  village  story  of 
her  indifference.  Perhaps  she  felt  that  I  might  consider  her 
fanatically  opposed  to  liquor.  Like  a  child's  extenuation  for 
accused  evil  was  the  story  of  her  long  fight  against  the  ser- 
pent that  had  wound  its  sinuous  coils  about  her  brother.  As 
she  talked  I  discerned  with  how  much  wisdom  she  had  striven, 
saving  his  pride  by  letting  no  ears  but  his  own  hear  her  plead- 
ings and  her  warnings  and  her  prayers,  for  sometimes,  in  his 
hours  of  depressed  weakness,  Robert  had  knelt  beside  his  sis- 
ter in  prayer,  and  asked  of  his  Maker  strength  to  reclaim 
himself,  pleading  that  the  curse  of  inherited  appetite  might  be 
removed.  It  was  a  bitter,  sad  tale,  just  the  voicing  of  a  de- 
spairing struggle. 

"  Of  course,  you  know,"  Jean  said,  "  how  my  husband 
strove  to  save  Robert  from  his  evident  doom." 

"  I  have  heard  that  he  was  very  bitter  against  the  drinking 
so  prevalent  in  the  village.  He  took  a  strong  stand,  and  made 
enemies  over  it;  but  he  was  a  conscientious  servant  of  his 

237 


The  Lone  Furrow 


Master,  and  I  don't  see  what  else  he  could  have  done.  I 
suppose,"  I  added,  "  that  this  passion  for  drink  has  ruined 
more  homes  in  the  village  than  all  other  causes  combined — 
don't  you  think  so  ?  " 

Jean  did  not  answer  at  once,  and  looking  at  her  quickly 
I  saw  a  most  unearthly  pallor  upon  her  features ;  her  face  was 
drawn  with  abject  misery. 

"  You  are  ill — you  have  overdone  yourself — don't  talk 
any  more,"  I  pleaded. 

"  I  am  better  now,"  she  added.  "  It  was  just  a  spasm ;  my 
nerves  are  tricky.  What  you  say  is  true,  Doctor  Cameron, 
but  you  do  not  know  the  full  depth  of  the  misery  this  cursed 
thing  entails.  Do  you  know  what  a  home  is  in  which  lurks 
this  monster?  It  is  a  living  hell — it  is  like  those  homes  in 
India  where  they  harbor  a  cobra,  not  knowing  the  minute  the 
serpent  may  strike  in  the  dark." 

"  You  have  known  it,"  I  said,  "  but  let  us  hope  that  it 
is  now  past." 

"Yes,  my  God!  I  have  known  it.  If  I  could  tell  you 
all — all — everything —  No,  a  thousand  times,  no — I  can't — I 
mustn't !  " 

I  was  startled  by  Jean's  vehemence,  but  I  attributed  it  to 
her  overtried  nerves. 

"  Neil  tried  everything  to  save  Robert.  He  pitted  him- 
self against  an  army  of  destroyers — men  who  were  always 
ready  to  drink  with  the  boy  and  tempt  him.  In  desperation 
my  husband — as  a  last  resort,  prohibited  the  hotel  from  sell- 
ing liquor  to  Robert.  This  could  never  cure  the  disease — 
King  Alcohol  is  too  powerful  to  be  bound  by  a  law  unless  the 
law  destroys  him  utterly." 

"  I  fancy  Neil  thought  this  a  mistake,"  I  said,  "  for  didn't 
238 


The  Lone  Furrow 


he  remove  this  embargo  the  day  he  disappeared — that  was 
probably  the  reason,  wasn't  it?" 

Jean  hesitated,  and  her  face  had  paled  again.  Then  she 
answered  simply,  "  No,  that  wasn't  the  reason." 

Jean's  words,  and  a  shrinking  look  of  fear  in  her  eyes, 
chased  my  thoughts  back  to  Munro's  study ;  the  quarrel  that 
had  taken  place  there  between  him  and  Robert;  the  boy's 
mysterious  actions  the  day  we  had  searched  the  room  together. 
A  numbing  cloud  of  shadowy  questions  and  suspicions 
crowded  my  brain  tumultuously.  There  had  been  some  ex- 
traordinary happening — what  was  it? 

I  was  roused  by  Jean  saying:  "  Perhaps  God  has  given  me 
this  chance  to  save  my  brother  from  a  drunkard's  grave.  I 
had  almost  lost  faith — even  now  it  seems  so  hard  to  think  that 
Robert  must  be  crushed,  his  body  sacrificed  to  save  his  soul." 

"  He  won't  be  sacrificed,  Jean,"  I  said ;  "  we'll  pull  him 
through,  and  I  believe  it  will  work  a  cure." 

A  wan  smile  lighted  up  her  face,  and  she  answered :  "  You 
always  give  me  hope — affliction  is  not  all  affliction  when  it 
brings  such  friends  as  I  have  found  here." 


239 


CHAPTER   XVI 

ISS  HARKETT  had  been  under  Doctor  Wes- 
ton's  care  during  these  days.  She  had  im- 
proved— quieted  down  after  the  first  attack 
of  riotous  nerves.  We  had  been  lulled  into  a 
false  sense  of  security  as  was  proven,  for  one 
day  Doctor  Weston  came  hurriedly  for  the  Memsahib,  and 
in  a  little  she  returned,  saying:  "John,  I  wish  you  would 
go  for  Mrs.  Paisly  and  bring  her  to  see  Teacher." 

Memsahib's  expression  of  misery  made  useless  the  ques- 
tion that  I  asked :  "  What's  wrong — has  Teacher  had  a  re- 
lapse?" 

We  were  standing  in  the  hallway,  and  she,  putting  her 
arms  about  my  neck  buried  her  face  in  my  shoulder,  sobbing: 
"  She  is  going  to  die.  O  God !  will  the  bitterness  ever  pass, 
will  the  time  of  trial  ever  cease?  We  are  like  a  scourge-swept 
city,  a  place  visited  by  divine  wrath.  The  sweetest  little 
woman  that  ever  breathed,  that  has  given  her  whole  life  for 
the  good  of  others,  and  now  she  is  cut  off  with  never  a  season 
of  rest." 

"  Why  bring  Mrs.  Paisly,  girl — what  can  she  do?  " 
"  She  can   make  happy  Teacher's  last  moments  if  she 
wishes.  What  a  pure  little  life  it  has  been ;  nothing  troubling 

240 


The  Lone  Furrow 


her  conscience  but  remorse  that  Mrs.  Paisly  has  left  the  con- 
gregation because  of  the  organ.  If  Teacher  can  reconcile  the 
old  lady  to  the  church  here  she'll  die  happy." 

"  I'll  bring  the  old  Puritan,"  I  answered,  "  and  she'll  in- 
deed be  an  infidel,  barren  of  human  love,  if  she  sticks  out." 

The  old  lady  lived  at  Paisly 's  Corners,  two  miles  beyond 
the  village,  so  I  drove  to  her  abode. 

A  desolate  quietude  shrouded  the  Corners ;  a  forest,  an  ex- 
panse of  tilled  plain,  even  wild  mountain  rocks  would  have 
been  less  dreary  than  Paisly's  Corners.  A  small  stone  black- 
smith shop,  as  rigidly  uncompromising  as  a  rock,  threw  a 
shadow  on  the  cross-roads  from  its  roof.  On  the  opposite  cor- 
ner two  frame  buildings,  the  unpainted  boards  weathered  to 
blue-gray,  stood  sullenly  apart,  separated  by  a  dilapidated 
picket  fence.  It  was  this  weak  gregarian  effort  of  the  inhabi- 
tants that  rendered  the  Corners  so  pitiably  desolate.  They 
were  like  lepers  outcasted  from  the  grander  isolation  of  farm 
life  and  ostracized  from  the  village  community. 

In  the  blacksmith  shop  a  hammer  tinkled  on  an  anvil  like 
a  monk's  bell ;  and  from  the  solitary  chimney  on  one  of  the 
neutral  tinted  dwellings  a  tiny  streamer  of  smoke  filtered  up- 
ward as  if  the  spirit  of  the  fire  sought  a  wider  existence. 

I  tied  my  horse  to  a  gate  post  and  knocked  upon  a  door. 

"  Good  day,  Mrs.  Paisly,"  I  said,  when  it  was  opened. 

"  Good  day  tae  you,  Doctor  Cameron — I  hope  you're  vera 
weel.  Come  in,  come  in,  Doctor.  Your  knock  gi'e  me  a 
shock,"  she  said,  as,  dusting  a  chair  with  her  apron,  she  drew 
it  beside  a  square  box-stove  for  me.  This  was  force  of  habit 
— there  was  no  warmth  in  the  stove ;  it  was  a  little  fire  temple 
that  no  doubt  had  drawn  forth  in  confessional  many  a  bit 
of  scandal  gossip. 

241 


The  Lone  Furrow 


"  I'm  sorry  if  I  frightened  you,"  I  said. 

"  You  did,  and  you  didna',  Doctor.  We  dinna  ha'e  many 
callers,  and  I  was  fearin'  Janet's  David  had  come  by  an  ac- 
cident. Yon's  his  hoose," — her  thumb  shot  over  her  shoulder. 
"  He  wouldna'  come  in  workin'  'oors  gang  there  was  nae- 
thing  wrong,"  she  explained,  "  though  we  often  foregather 
for  a  bit  sociable  converse  o'  an  evening." 

"  You  haven't  many  visitors,  then,  Mrs.  Paisly?  " 

"  Weel,  we  ha'e  an'  dinna  ha'e.  No  vera  desirable  ones, 
as  a  rule.  Come  Friday  it'll  be  a  week,  a  lightnin'-rod  ped- 
dler just  swooped  doon  on  the  Corners  wi'  his  ungodly  tricks; 
a  bit  iron  he  was  for  stickin'  up  tae  avert  the  hand  o'  the  Al- 
mighty. Says  I  tae  him :  '  You're  thinkin'  tae  cope  wi'  the 
Lord,  man — tak'  care  ye  dinna  be  struck  doon  yersel'  for 
your  blasphemous  thoughts.'  I'll  tell  ye  what  it  is,  Doctor 
Cameron,"  the  old  lady  continued,  swinging  restlessly  back 
and  forth  in  her  big  wooden  rocker,  "  the  farmers  an'  folk  like 
oorsel's  in  the  villages  are  just  prey  for  city  sharks." 

"  That's  why  you  jumped  when  I  knocked  at  the  door, 
was  it,  Mrs.  Paisly?  " 

"Aye;  but  ye  ken,  Doctor,  I  hadna  time  to  tak'  a  peep 
through  the  glass;  an"  the  first  I  kenned  o'  your  comin'  was 
the  bang  at  the  door.  I  was  puttin'  doon  plums  for  a  bit 
kitchen  to  the  bread — it  saves  mony  a  poond  o'  butter,  does 
the  jam." 

"  They  look  very  sweet  and  appetizing,"  I  complimented, 
nodding  to  a  row  of  jars  that  stood  on  her  kitchen  table. 

"  An'  like  mony  a  comely  lass's  face — their  looks  just  a' 
1'e — just  standin'  monuments  tae  the  deceit  o'  peddlers" 
Her  accent  on  the  peddlers  was  a  treat  in  its  acrid  in- 
tensity. 

242 


The  Lone  Furrow 


To  humor  the  garrulous  body  I  said,  "  How's  that,  Mrs. 
Paisly?" 

I  was  Impatient  with  my  mission,  but  I  knew  her  well. 

There  was  the  peace  of  a  dying  woman  at  stake — a  ruf- 
fling haste  would  surely  breed  a  spirit  of  obstinacy.  I  was 
drawing  her  into  my  depth,  that  my  request  might  be  hon- 
ored. 

"  It  was  this  way,  Doctor.  It's  gone  eight  years  syne  my 
husband  was  gored  be  a  bull.  He  was  a  gran'  man,  was  John 
Paisly — the  same  name  as  yoursel',  Doctor — there's  a  stability 
aboot  the  name  John,  I'm  pleased  wi'  the  profound  roll  o'  it ; 
Archie  or  Sandy  are  too  lightsome  tae  my  mind.  Weel,  John 
d'e'd  o'  the  bull's  attack.  We  were  back  on  the  farm  yon 
time,  an'  I  got  that  miserable  wi'  lonesomeness  that  I  could 
dae  naething  but  mope;  I  was  failin'.  An'  David — John's 
brother,  him  that  haes  the  smithy  yonder — advised  me  tae 
sell  the  farm  an'  live  here  at  the  Corners  where  it's  sae  cheer- 
ful. I  picked  up  at  once.  I  couldna'  ha'e  stood  it  anither 
year  yonder." 

"You  find  it  brighter  here?"  I  asked,  thimcing  of  the 
wonderful  potentiality  that  comparative  conditions  held,  and 
trying  to  picture  the  greater  desolation  that  she  had  fled  from. 

"  Aye,  I'm  vera  satisfied  wi'  the  Corners.  Through  the 
open  window  I  can  hear  the  bang  o'  David's  hammer  smiting 
the  iron;  an'  I  take  strange  humors  aboot  it.  Sometimes  I 
liken  it  tae  the  clang  o'  Moses'  rod  on  the  rock  when  the 
waters  gushed  oot.  In  the  winter  mony  a  time  I'll  peek 
through  the  glass  thinkin'  it's  sleigh  bells  I'm  hearin'.  But 
the  gran'  company  is  bein'  sae  near  the  railway  track — it's 
just  yonder  halfway  o'  the  field ;  an'  the  freight  trains  are 
passin'  three  or  four  times  a  day.  The  engine  has  tae  blaw 

243 


The  Lone  Furrow 


the  whistle  at  the  crossing  yonder,  an'  it's  the  cheerfullest 
soond  imaginable.  I  maun  say  I  dinna  like  their  blawing  on 
the  Sabbath — it's  a  pity  they  canna  dae  enough  wark  on  six 
days  wi'out  desecrating  the  Lord's  ane." 

I  sat  patiently,  casting  furtive,  even  strong  glances  at  the 
plum  jars,  hoping  to  draw  the  garrulous  body's  mind  to  the 
question  at  issue,  for  the  iniquity  of  the  plums  settled,  I  meant 
to  state  my  errand. 

A  sizzling  on  the  kitchen  stove,  a  pungent  odor  of  burned 
sugar,  luckily  cut  into  Mrs.  Paisly's  reminiscences  and  she 
darted  with  surprising  agility  to  the  salvage  of  her  boiling 
over  fruit. 

"  It's  just  that,  Doctor,"  she  resumed  on  her  return,  "  the 
ruination  quantity  o'  sugar  them  plums  tak'.  As  I  was  sayin' 
when  the  kettle  interrupted  me,  I  was  na  sooner  here  at  the 
Corners,  the  acre  o'  land  no'  fenced  yet,  when  a  fruit  tree  ped- 
dler happens  along;  they're  like  vultures  wi'  their  swoopin' 
doon  on  hones'  folk.  He  haes  a  buik  wi'  glamourous  pictures 
o'  plums  the  size  o'  peaches,  an'  peaches  the  size  o'  King  o' 
Thompkins  apples,  an'  apples  as  big  as  melons.  I  had  my 
doots  o'  all  that,  but  he  just  talked  me  roond  an'  I  paid  a  fear- 
fu*  price  for  six  plum  trees.  Man  alive!  I  signed  for  trees, 
but  when  they  came  they  were  whiffet  spindle-shank  things 
like  gooseberry  bushes;  an'  they  grew  that  slow  I  was  tired  o' 
waitin'  for  them.  An'  then  the  plums!  Look  for  yoursel', 
Doctor." 

Mrs.  Paisly  brought  from  a  basket  for  my  inspection  a 
handful  of  green  and  purple  plums  the  size  of  hickory  nuts. 

"  That's  why  I  ca'  them  a  standin'  1'e,"  she  said.  "  But 
yon  godless  peddler  will  get  his  deserts  when  he  goes  where 
there  are  na  plums." 

244 


The  Lone  Furrow 


"  I  suppose  he  disappeared — he  never  came  back  to  ask 
how  your  plums  were  doing,  did  he,  Mrs.  Paisly?  " 

My  question  brought  forth  the  most  extraordinary,  ir- 
relevant answer — I  suppose  it  was  the  idea  of  the  disappear- 
ing peddler  that  switched  her  active  mind.  She  simply  writhed 
in  the  big  chair  at  the  past  entire  subversion  of  her  innate 
curiosity,  ejaculating:  "Saints  above!  Doctor,  I'm  daft — 
just  daft,  not  to  be  asking  after  Jeanie  Craig's  man.  Is  there 
ony  word  o'  Minister  Munro  this  week?  " 

"  None,"  I  answered. 

"  Dreadful !  the  puir  body !  In  a  temporal  sense  I'm 
meaning,  Doctor,  for  I  canna  bring  mysel'  to  a  harmonious 
sympathy  wi'  the  spiritual  goings  on  that's  come  tae  the  Kirk 
in  lona.  They're  going  tae  build  it  up  again,  ye  were 
saying." 

I  hadn't  said  so,  but  she  continued :  "  Perhaps  they'll  no' 
be  sae  keen  aboot  trifling  wi'  the  solemnities  noo." 

She  looked  at  me  so  searchingly  that  I  was  driven  to  ask: 
"  How  are  you  meaning,  Mrs.  Paisly?  " 

"  Just  that  by  the  time  the  kirk's  finished  they'll  no'  feel 
like  frittering  awa'  money  for  an  organ.  I  dinna  say  it  is, 
mind  ye,  Doctor,  for  I'm  no'  ane  tae  interpret  the  mysterious 
way  o'  the  Lord,  but  the  destruction  o'  that  godless  instru- 
ment is  like  a  visitation." 

I  seized  upon  the  opening  and  thrust  forward  what  was 
in  my  mind.  "  Whatever  they  decide  upon,"  I  said,  "  the 
saddest  part  of  it  will  be  that  Miss  Harkett  will  not  be  there 
as  organist." 

"Little  Teacher?  Goodness,  Doctor,  that  was  the  ane 
prick  tae  ma  conscience  that  yon  sweet  little  Christian  was 
troubled  o'er  the  stand  I  took.  Would  ye  believe  it,  Doctor, 

245 


The  Lone  Furrow 


she's  walked  a'  the  way  oot  here  tae  the  Corners  tae  win  me 
o'er.  Man,  I  just  had  tae  steel  my  heart  tae  what  I  consid- 
ered my  duty  tae  God.  Tears  would  come  frae  the  body's 
e'es;  an'  her  pleading — aye,  she  is  a  Christian,  though  I 
couldna'  understand  her  infatuation  for  the  drooning,  snor- 
ing pipes.  Is  Teacher  going  awa',  Doctor?  " 

"  I'm  afraid  she's  going  on  a  very  long  journey,  Mrs. 
Paisly —  she's  dying!  " 

"  D'eing!  little  Teacher  d'eing?  " 

Mrs.  Paisly  rose  and  paced  the  floor.  I  sat  silent,  wonder- 
ing what  was  passing  in  her  mind.  She  seemed  to  have  for- 
gotten my  presence.  She  opened  a  little  cabinet  nailed  to  the 
wall,  and  took  out  a  knitted  shawl. 

"  D'ye  see  that,  Doctor  ?  Teacher  worked  that  wi'  her 
own  hands  an'  gi'  it  me  last  Christmas,  making  me  promise  to 
wear  it  when  I  was  driving  tae  service  at  Stonehill.  An'  noo 
she's  d'eing.  Puir  body.  I  must  awa'  in  tae  see  her.  Can 
I  see  her,  Doctor — just  tae  kiss  her  good-by,  for  I'll  be  hop- 
ing tae  meet  her  in  heaven,  for  she's  ane  o'  the  Chosen." 

"  I  came  out  for  you,  Mrs.  Paisly,"  I  said  simply. 
"  Teacher  is  asking  for  you,  and  you  can  comfort  her  last  mo- 
ments. Can  you  come  back  with  me  now?" 

"  Indeed  I  can.  The  plums  are  that  soor  they'd  no'  take 
hurt  if  they  soaked  i'  sugar  for  a  month.  I'll  just  ask  Janet 
tae  keep  an  eye  tae  their  stewing.  I'll  be  wi'  you  in  a  jiffy. 
Janet'll  fair  greet  when  she  kens  Teacher's  sae  poorly. 
Dearie  me,  dearie  me!  Poor  little  Teacher!  " 

Lamenting,  Mrs.  Paisly  slipped  to  summon  her  relative, 
and  as  they  were  back,  Janet  thrusting  the  door  open  sud- 
denly, I  saw  over  her  shoulder  a  handkerchief  furtively  ob- 
literating tears. 

246 


The  Lone  Furrow 


Soon  we  were  on  the  way  to  lona,  I  striving  for  an  open- 
ing to  prepare  the  way  for  Mrs.  Paisly's  reconciliation  to  the 
organ.  But  what  was  I  to  do  in  such  a  delicate  mission — a 
man  bungler?  Perhaps  my  patience  in  listening  to  the  tale 
of  the  acrid  plums  would  be  something  in  a  preparatory  way. 

The  Memsahib  came  out  as  I  drove  to  the  gate  of  little 
Teacher's  home.  She  stood  for  a  second  with  her  hand  in  the 
old  lady's,  saying:  "  You  had  better  send  the  horse  away  till 
you  are  needing  him  again,  John.  I'll  bring  Mrs.  Paisly  to 
the  Hedge  for  tea,  then  you  can  drive  her  back." 

What  would  be  the  result  of  the  Scotchwoman's  visit,  I 
questioned  over  and  over,  waiting  at  home  for  the  Mem- 
sahib's  coming.  Would  that  wondrous,  indefinable,  evanes- 
cent, enduring,  ethereal,  ever-recurrent  element,  love,  subdue 
the  fanatical  obduracy  of  the  Calvinistic  Mrs.  Paisly,  where 
argument  and  exhortation  and  the  influence  of  the  whole 
church  set  had  failed?  It  would  be  a  curious  study  in  theo- 
psychology.  It  would  be  something  like  Christ  pitting  His 
doctrine  of  love  and  gentleness  against  the  harsh  tenets  of  the 
Jews.  Would  gentle,  dying  Teacher  transmit  something  of 
the  broader  religious  spirit  to  the  woman  bred  within  the  nar- 
row environment  of  uncompromising  spiritual  austerity? 
And  Mrs.  Paisly  had  declared  that  she  would  never  counte- 
nance the  desecration  of  God's  tabernacle  by  what  she  firmly 
believed  was  an  innovation  of  the  Devil. 

And  also  well  I  knew  that  he  who  hoped  to  convince  a 
Scot  against  his  will  had  a  task  such  as  Mahomet  undertook 
when  he  summoned  the  mountain;  such  as  King  Canute  es- 
sayed when  he  bade  the  tide  stay  its  advance. 

Most  certainly  Teacher  would  fail. 

Then  I  thought  of  Christ  stilling  the  angry  waters.  In- 
247 


The  Lone  Furrow 


deed  there  was  a  greater  power  than  Mahomet's  or  Canute's. 
Perhaps  through  Teacher  Christ's  love-power  would  prevail. 

I  saw  the  Memsahib  and  Mrs.  Paisly  coming  up  the  walk. 
Something  in  the  Scotchwoman's  appearance  suggested  a 
softening  of  harsh  lines;  her  angular  face  was  gentler  in  ex- 
pression, as  though  she  had  passed  through  a  dozen  years  of 
refining  influence ;  her  steel-gray  eyes  radiated  the  questioning 
light  of  one  who  walks  falteringly  like  a  child,  as  if  new 
worlds  had  opened  up  to  her  in  mysterious  beatitude. 

I  held  the  gate  for  them  to  enter,  and  Memsahib  said 
softly:  "  Teacher  is  resting  so  happily." 

"  Is  there  any  hope?  "  I  asked. 

"  No ;  and  it  just  seems  as  though  it  would  be  a  sin  to 
ask  for  anything  but  just  what  is.  I  never  saw  a  person  in  the 
full  joy  of  life  and  hope  so  perfectly  happy,  so  contented! 
It's  the  saddest,  most  beautiful  thing  in  all  the  world, 
Teacher's  faith  and  resignation." 

"  Aye,"  Mrs.  Paisly  added.  I  started  at  the  change  in  the 
Scotchwoman's  voice ;  even  the  single  expression  "  aye  "  car- 
ried the  most  wonderful  note  of  softening. 

"  Teacher  is  just  drifting  intil  the  arms  o'  God,"  she  con- 
tinued, as  I  drew  a  chair  for  her.  "  It  would  be  a  black  heart 
that  could  beat  beside  yon  couch  and  keep  tae  harshness  or 
evil  thought." 

"  Mrs.  Paisly  has  removed  the  last  worry  from  Teacher's 
mind,"  the  Memsahib  said. 

"And  I  thank  God  I  had  a  chance  tae  do  it,"  Mrs. 
Paisly  added  solemnly ;  "  and  I  feel  a  load  off  my  ain  heart 
because  o'  it.  I  believe  in  conserving  tha  principles  o'  re- 
ligion, but  when  Teacher  spoke  wi'  me,  something  o'  the 
speerit  o'  Christ  seemed  tae  look  f  rae  her  e'e,  and  hang  on  her 

248 


The  Lone  Furrow 


words.  And  when  I  gave  up  I  felt  a  great  sweetness  o'  relief 
warming  aboot  my  heart.  It's  naething  tae  dee  like  yon 
Christian;  she  maun  say:  '  O  death  where  is  thy  sting?  O 
grave  where  is  thy  victory  ?  ' ' 

"  We'll  have  a  cup  of  tea  Mrs.  Paisly,"  Memsahib  sug- 
gested— "  you  look  tired." 

"  And  I'll  drive  you  home  whenever  you're  ready,"  I 
added. 

"  With  Mrs.  Cameron's  permission  I'd  like  tae  bide  here 
till  the  end.  The  doctor  thinks  Teacher'll  no'  last  till  mid- 
night." 

Memsahib  drew  the  Scotchwoman's  withered  face  within 
her  hands  and  kissed  her  tenderly,  saying:  "  I'm  glad  you're 
going  to  wait — Teacher  might  forget,  and  ask  for  you— 
might  think  your  coming  had  been  just  a  vision." 

"  I'd  like  tae  see  Mrs.  Munro — Jeanie  Craig,  as  she  al- 
ways was,"  Mrs.  Paisly  said.  "  I'm  afeered  I've  no'  been  as 
neighborly  as  I  might.  Perhaps  I've  been  a  bit  set  in  my  way 
through  clinging  tae  the  old  style  o'  things." 

"  I'll  ask  her  to  come  down,"  Memsahib  answered ;  "  she's 
up  with  Robert." 

"  Aye,  there  it  goes  again — I'm  just  selfish,  indifferent, 
no'  asking  aboot  the  poor  laddie.  Hoo's  he  daing — I  heerd  he 
was  bad  hurted?  It's  just  ane  thing  after  anither — trouble 
a'togither  for  everybody." 

Memsahib  brought  Jean  to  the  lawn,  and  as  I  wandered 
about  in  and  out  of  the  house,  restless  because  of  the  intense 
mental  atmosphere,  I  could  see  the  Scotchwoman  who  had 
told  me  at  Paisly's  Corners  that  she  did  not  approve  of  the 
goings  on  in  the  kirk  since  Munro  came,  lavishing  upon  Jean 
sympathy,  and  encouragement  to  stand  strong  in  the  hour  of 
17  249 


The  Lone  Furrow 


her  trial.  She  was  calling  her  "  Jeanie,"  and  holding  her 
hand,  and  brushing  little  flecks  of  dust  from  her  skirt  with  a 
handkerchief,  and  mothering  her. 

In  my  restless  orbit,  passing,  I  heard  snatches  of  advice. 
"  The  Lord  will  put  it  a'  right."  And  she  wanted  to  know 
what  were  sparrows  that  fell  and  were  seen  of  His  eye,  com- 
pared with  a  conscientious  servant  like  Minister  Neil.  The 
shrewd  Celtic  eye  of  Mrs.  Paisly,  a  grandmother  herself,  had 
discerned  something.  The  Scotch  voice  was  attuned  to  a 
baffling  of  the  masculine  ear,  but  notwithstanding  this,  at 
times  intensified  to  clearness  by  this  wondrous  bond  of  sym- 
pathy between  women,  of  motherhood,  words  leaped  such  dis- 
tances as  I  could  place  between  us.  Once  it  was,  "  Jeanie, 
you'll  be  a  happy  woman  then.  Dearie,  I  remember  when 
Aleck  was  born " 

I  shut  the  study  window — things  of  the  lawn  were  sacred. 
I  sat  staring  vacantly  at  a  shelf  of  metaphysical  volumes,  won- 
dering if  there  was  anything  within  their  leather  covers  that 
could  teach  me  the  true  guiding  spirit  of  this  wonderful  Cel- 
tic temperament,  fierce  as  a  Ghazi  in  religion,  gentle  and 
sweet  as  a  dove  in  human  feeling — all  embodied  in  excehis 
in  Mrs.  Paisly  of  Paisly's  Corners. 

We  stood  meekly  face  to  face  with  the  nearest  manifesta- 
tions of  God's  omnipotence — dissolution  and  evolution  and 
creation  thrust  themselves — as  new  worlds  bursting  forth  had 
appeared  to  Agamemnon  on  the  walls  of  Troy — like  illumi- 
nating stars  across  the  dark  sky,  heralded,  claimed  of  appear- 
ance by  the  tongue  of  the  Scotchwoman,  as  she  talked  in 
solemn  fervor  of  Teacher's  approaching  death  and  Jean's 
baby  that  was  to  be. 

I  heard  the  Memsahib  say  to  Mrs.  Paisly  that  she  had 
250 


The   Lone   Furrow 


made  the  tea  strong.  Perhaps  it  was — what  did  it  matter; 
before  midnight  something  exquisite,  something  closely  akin 
to  Christ's  spirit  would  have  passed  from  us. 

It  wras  almost  midnight  when  Teacher,  her  fingers  lying 
in  Mrs.  Paisly's  hand,  just  breathed  her  spirit  away  from  us, 
so  gently  that  Memsahib,  not  knowing  that  she  had  gone, 
whispered  softly  to  her,  "  Ruth — Ruth,  dear — it  is  I,  Allis." 

In  the  morning  I  drove  Mrs.  Paisly  back  to  the  Corners. 

Once  she  tried  to  speak  of  Teacher,  but  it  was  too  much 
— she  broke  down.  We  traveled  half  a  mile  before  she 
trusted  her  voice  to  say:  "  I  maun  grip  mysel' — My!  but  I'm 
a  shaughlin'  old  body !  " 

The  mauve-tinted  twin  cottages  of  Paisly's  Corners  threw 
themselves  across  our  vision  at  a  turn  in  the  road,  and  their 
intrusion  awakened  the  everyday  perceptions  in  my  compan- 
ion's mind. 

"  I'm  wonderin'  how  Janet  got  on  wi'  the  plums,"  she 
found  voice  to  say.  "  Hooever,  she  couldna  spoil  their — they 
were  that  soor.  I  told  her  to  just  souce  them  wi'  sugar.  I'm 
no'  carin'  much.  Do  you  ken,  Doctor,  I've  a  queer  sad  feelin' 
o'  happiness;  it  doesna  matter  aboot  the  plums  or  onything; 
naething  matters  much.  I'm  reconciled  tae  my  ain  Kirk,  and 
I've  seen  a  guid  Christian  d'e,  glad  tae  be  wi'  the  Lord.  The 
Corners  look  sae  peaceful  and  restfullike  tae  me  this  morning. 
I'm  hoping  the  trouble  will  pass  frae  Jeanie  Craig — I'll  ask 
it  o'  the  Almighty  to-night." 


251 


CHAPTER   XVII 

|HE  Agnostic  was  a  perambulating  query;  his 
existence  one  long  question — "Why?"  His 
endeavor  restless,  persistent  delving  into  the 
adamantine  rocks  of  impenetrability.  His  very 
appearance  resembled  the  printed  query  mark ; 
large-browed  head  drooped  forward  from  rounded  shoulders; 
attenuated  limbs  ending  in  a  dot  at  the  bottom  of  which  were 
his  feet.  A  desire  for  knowledge,  commendable  no  doubt, 
might  yet  turn  to  the  frittering  away  of  time  and  talent  if  the 
niche  explored  was  like  the  old  lady's  cupboard,  bare  of  even 
a  bone  of  contention. 

I  had  not  seen  him  for  a  few  days,  and  thought  perhaps  he 
had  ostracized  himself  out  of  consideration  for  our  mental 
unrest. 

After  I  had  returned  from  Paisly's  Corners  he  found  me 
sitting  alone — at  least  in  a  companionship  that  was  dually 
company  and  isolation,  for  Blitz  lay  on  the  bench,  his  head  on 
my  knee. 

"  It's  curious,"  the  Major  said,  "  how  the  most  tre- 
mendous throbbings  of  nature — or,  as  Schelling  would  have 
put  it,  Trinity  Godhead — gallop  here  with  a  relentless  stride 

252 


The  Lone  Furrow 


harnessed  to  the  carriage  of  life  beside  a  donkey  of  thistle- 
down vacuity." 

"  You  mean  ?  "  I  queried. 

"  I  mean,  to  begin  at  omega — the  drifting  thistledown — 
to-day  I  met  Tommy,  the  sexton  of  the  kirk  that  was.  I've 
been  away  in  New  York  for  a  couple  of  days,  and  this  morn- 
ing Tommy,  meeting  me,  asked :  '  How's  tricks  in  New 
York,  Major?'" 

"  That  sounds  good,"  I  said ;  "  what  did  you  answer?  " 

"  I  replied  that  they  were  about  as  usual,  and  Tommy  re- 
marked :  '  I  suppose  New  York  is  the  same  as  lona,  dull  as 
ditch  water.  Poor  crops  flatten  a  town  out  quicker  nor  any- 
thing.' " 

"  Tommy  has  a  limited  perspective,"  I  observed. 

"  That's  just  it,"  objected  the  Major,  "  he  hasn't.  New 
York  is  the  same  as  the  village — a  place  for  transients.  More 
or  less  gilding  doesn't  matter ;  to  ride  or  to  walk  doesn't  mat- 
ter. The  same  thing  that  convulses  us  here  at  the  present 
convulses  the  man  yonder,  millionaire  or  pauper — the  happen- 
ing to  the  body,  and  the  uncertainty  of  the  real  journey 
through  eternity." 

"  I  think  you're  right,  Major." 

"  You  think !  Well,  that's  as  far  as  any  man  can  go. 
Neither  Hegel,  nor  Spinoza,  nor  Meister  Eckhart  could  go 
beyond  that — just  to  think." 

"  What  of  Minister  Grey?  "  I  hazarded  in  banter. 

But  the  Agnostic  seized  upon  it  with  avidity  as  material. 
"  He's  as  provable  as  they  are,  and  as  unprovable ;  and  out 
of  his  knowledge  as  inefficacious.  But " — and  the  Major's 
voice  grew  low  out  of  its  own  volition — "  the  little  woman 
that  died  last  night  was  a  message." 

253 


The  Lone  Furrow 


"  Of  what?  "  I  asked,  thinking  to  trap  him. 

But  the  Agnostic  fenced  warily,  as  metaphysically  as 
Meister  Eckhart  might  have  done.  "  That's  what  I'm  asking 
myself,"  he  answered.  "  Was  it  just  a  purity  of  life  here, 
comparison  inducing  adulation,  magnetically  exacted  tribute? 
I  heard  about  it,"  he  explained ;  "  and  if  I,  or  you,  or  Min- 
ister Grey,  had  gone  to  that  Scotch  warrior  of  conviction, 
Mrs.  Paisly,  and  asked  her  in  the  name  of  the  Lord  to  yield, 
what  would  have  happened  ?  " 

"  But  God  chose  the  fitting  instrument,"  I  objected. 

"  But  He  had  the  ordained  one — the  minister,  called  for 
that  purpose.  It  is  difficult  to  determine  just  what  is  chance 
and  what  is  of  arrangement ;  or  is  there  anything  predestined 
to  happen  except  the  two  things,  evolution  and  dissolution — 
even  these  seem  purely  matters  of  chance,  not  even  separate 
elements,  just  changes,  varying  phases  of  the  one  great  essence, 
a  noisy  ripple  in  the  matrix  of  quiet." 

"  There's  nothing  of  chance  work  in  God's  scheme  of  crea- 
tion," I  answered.  "  Look  at  the  Pleiades.  Come  back  a 
thousand  years  from  now,  Major,  and  you  will  find  them 
gradually  circling  with  majestic  sureness  across  the  sky  from 
east  to  west,  and  you  can  tell  the  day,  the  hour  by  the  truth 
of  their  position." 

"  That's  your  short  vision,  Doctor,"  he  contended. 
"  Within  them  there  are  changes  occurring — the  happenings 
of  chance.  And  if  we're  to  believe  Genesis  they  were  not  al- 
ways as  they  are.  But  perhaps  you  can  answer  this  question 
that  troubles  me  not  a  little.  There  are  the  maple  trees — 
they're  all  alike,  aren't  they?  " 

"Yes,"  I  answered. 

"  Only  superficially.     Among  all   the   maple  leaves  on 

254 


The  Lone  Furrow 


earth  there  are  not  two  exactly  alike,  neither  are  there  t\vo 
trees  alike.  Sheep  all  look  the  same,  but  close  observation  dis- 
covers a  difference;  a  farmer  can  come  to  know  each  indi- 
vidual sheep  of  his  flock  by  its  face.  No  two  humans  are 
exact  counterparts.  Even  your  twins — the  mother  can  dis- 
tinguish between  them." 

"  That's  the  infinity  of  God's  creative  power,"  I  asserted. 

"  Is  it?  Then  man  is  infinite;  for  a  carpenter  could  no 
more  saw  two  boards  the  same  length  than  he  could  create 
two  hills  without  a  valley  between.  I'll  admit  I've  troubled 
over  this  question.  Is  it  the  wondrous  infinity  of  a  Godhead, 
or  inability  for  perfection?  Man  was  created  in  a  certain 
image — some  of  them  are  a  hideous  reflection  on  the  Model — 
and  yet  never  one  attains  to  the  same  form  as  the  other." 

"  I  don't  know — I  can't  answer,"  I  said. 

"  Neither  can  I,  nor  could  Spinoza,  nor  Minister  Grey." 

"Why  trouble?"  I  asked. 

"  A  seeking  for  knowledge  is  commendable,"  the  Major 
answered.  "  Galileo  and  Newton  gave  us  a  rich  heritage  be- 
cause they  were  not  content  with  not  knowing." 

"  Yes,  because  Galileo  was  wise  enough  to  stop  at  the 
outer  limit;  the  stars  were  a  border  line  between  knowledge 
possible  and  impossible." 

"  But  what's  beyond  the  stars — nothing?  " 

"  Teacher  knows,"  I  answered — "  she  always  knew;  just 
because  she  leaned  on  something  greater  than  human  knowl- 
edge." 

"  It  was  very  beautiful  and  very  good,"  the  Major  said 
sincerely.  "  A  gentle  sweet  type  of  thistledown.  There's 
another,  a  rougher  texture,  Sweeny  with  his  ax-handle  cure 
for  physical  ills.  The  M.  D.'s,  and  the  nostrums — I  think 

255 


The  Lone   Furrow 


he  tried  eveiything  in  that  line — failed  to  pluck  the  shadow- 
throwing  string  of  delusion  from  his  cap,  but  the  ax-handle 
cured  him;  that  and  a  diet  of  fried  pork.  What  was  that, 
Doctor?" 

"  Nature,"  I  answered. 

"  Yes,  a  grand  curative  for  mind  or  body.  But  I  must 
travel,  Doctor,  for  nature  tells  me  I  am  hungry;  and  human 
rule  has  so  arranged  it  that  if  I  don't  eat  now  at  twelve 
o'clock,  I  must  go  hungry  till  six.  Think  over  what  I  have 
said." 

"  Heavens!  "  I  mentally  ejaculated.  "  Think  over  what 
he  has  said — it  is  trying  enough  to  listen  patiently!  "  And, 
besides,  here  were  the  real  torturing  thoughts  of  everyday 
trouble,  driving  from  my  mind  everything  else,  as  the  mar- 
tins in  spring  drove  the  sparrows  from  their  nests  in  the  iron 
coping  of  the  corner  store's  roof. 

It  was  always  this  way  when  I  was  alone  now,  a  tumultu- 
ous tableau ;  Minister  Munro  a  blank ;  Teacher  dead ;  Jean  in 
a  desert  of  misery ;  Robert,  his  body  broken,  at  best  a  helpless 
cripple  for  life — a  heavy  price  for  the  regeneration  of  his 
soul.  Something  in  that  thought  staggered  the  idea  of  consid- 
ering his  redemption  from  drink  as  a  touch  of  silver  lining. 
The  study  in  the  Manse,  the  unholy  odor  of  drug,  his  quarrel 
with  Neil,  the  disappearance  of  the  jade-handled  dagger — 
these  remembrances  perched  like  birds  of  evil  omen  on  the 
walls  of  the  regeneration  edifice,  and  I  fell  to  wondering  why 
Robert  had  not  cleared  up  the  mystery  when  it  was  thought 
he  might  die.  It  must  be  a  dark  something  when  he  had  not 
spoken  then. 

Bain  had  arranged  for  Doctor  MacLean  to  come  from 
York  for  the  last  service  over  little  Teacher. 

256 


The  Lone  Furrow 


"  It  will  be  just  in  keeping  with  her  gentle,  Christian  life 
for  Doctor  MacLean  to  word  what  her  loss  means  to  us,  and 
draw  our  attention  to  the  reward  religion  holds  for  such,"  he 
said. 

The  morning  of  the  funeral  the  Memsahib  said  to  me: 
"  It  seems  cruel  that  Teacher  could  not  be  buried  from 
the  church  she  loved  so  well;  she  spoke  of  it  toward  the 
last." 

"  It  doesn't  matter  much,"  I  answered ;  "  the  real  beauti- 
ful part,  Teacher  herself,  has  gone." 

At  two  o'clock  shutters  hid  the  windows  of  the  stores ;  the 
hammer  that  had  rung  upon  an  iron  anvil  was  leaned  against 
the  forge ;  the  smith  stripped  the  leather  apron  from  his  waist, 
and  in  his  home  donned  his  Sunday  suit  of  black.  The  village 
rested  from  toil  and  from  barter  and  from  play.  The  school- 
room, deserted,  held  only  silent,  solemn  benches.  The 
wrooden  sidewalk  echoed  to  the  sedate  tread  of  men  and 
women  and  children  that  marched,  scarce  speaking,  to  a  little 
brick  cottage  that  had  for  many  years  known  the  quick,  nerv- 
ous patter  of  Teacher's  feet. 

Within  an  acacia  hedge  the  villagers  waited. 

Presently,  actuated  by  transmitted  impulse,  they  thronged 
into  the  cottage,  pushing  gently,  silently,  like  sand  drifting 
before  a  wave,  until  men  stood  shoulder  to  shoulder,  a  solid 
mass  of  human  sympathy. 

Doctor  MacLean  spoke  gently  of  the  loss  that  had 
brought  all  these  friends  of  the  dead  woman  together,  asking 
the  listeners  not  to  make  useless  the  glorious  endeavor  of  the 
Christian  life  that  had  been  so  long  with  them  an  embodied 
call  from  God  for  better  living.  Then  he  offered  up  an  ear- 
nest, pathetic  prayer.  When  the  gentle-faced  minister  rose 

257 


The  Lone  Furrow 


and,  like  an  inspired  poet  of  divinity,  chose  as  a  text  for  the 
Church's  last  tribute,  reading  from  his  Bible : 

"  '  But  Deborah,  Rebecca's  nurse,  died,  and  she  was  buried  be- 
neath Bethel,  under  an  oak,  and  the  name  of  it  was  called  Allon- 
bachuth.'  " 

I  saw  the  Memsahib's  eyes  swim  in  tears,  and  all  about 
me  were  white  signals  of  unrestrainable  sympathy  and  human 
feeling. 

"  Allon-bachuth  means  the  Oak  of  Weeping,"  Doctor 
MacLean  said,  in  his  poet's  voice,  "  and  to-day  we  lay  to  rest 
our  loved  sister  under  the  oak  of  our  weeping  hearts.  Like 
Deborah,  she  was  a  nurse  for  the  afflicted  in  spirit.  All 
her  life  she  nursed  the  weak  in  heart  and  the  stricken  in 
mind." 

Mercifully  Bain  caught  the  Memsahib  in  his  arms,  and 
making  a  pretense  that  she  walked,  literally  carried  her  out 
to  the  little  lawn  bordered  by  the  acacias. 

"  I'm  such  a  coward,"  the  Memsahib  sobbed. 

"  No,  it's  the  brave  quality  of  human  sympathy,"  Bain 
objected.  "  It  was  just  more  than  I  could  stand  myself.  You 
saved  me  from  making  a  weak  display." 

When  Doctor  MacLean  had  ceased  his  tribute,  the  vil- 
lagers passed  in  a  long  line  to  take  a  last  look  at  the  cold  pale 
face,  still  sweet  in  death,  that  they  had  each  loved — man, 
woman,  and  child. 

Then  from  the  little  cottage  that  was  like  a  great  vase 
with  its  holding  of  white  flowers,  the  long  procession  of  car- 
riages and  farm  wagons  passed  to  the  village  cemetery  in 
its  grove  of  pines.  Through  their  harp  boughs  the  wind  car- 

258 


The   Lone  Furrow 


ried  a  plaintive  dirge  to  blend  with  the  minister's  soft  voice 
as  he  read : 

"  «  Like  as  a  father  pitieth  his  children,  so  the  Lord  pitieth  them 
that  fear  him. 

"  «  For  he  knoweth  our  frame  ;  he  remembereth  that  we  are  dust. 

' '  '  As  for  man  his  days  are  as  grass  ;  as  a  flower  of  the  field  so  he 
flourisheth. 

"  '  For  the  wind  passeth  over  it,  and  it  is  gone  ;  and  the  place 
thereof  shall  know  it  no  more. 

"  '  Behold  I  show  you  a  mystery  ;  we  shall  not  all  sleep,  but  we 
shall  all  be  changed. 

'«  '  But  thanks  be  to  God  which  giveth  us  the  victory  through  our 
Lord  Jesus  Christ.'  " 

As  some  beautiful  dream  is  shattered  to  waking  pain  by 
the  fall  of  a  book,  so  I  almost  cried  out  in  anguish,  waked  into 
dreary  realism  by  the  dull  thud  of  gravel  echoing  on  the  coffin 
from  the  bottom  of  the  grave.  Indeed  it  was  the  last  terri- 
ble rite  of  inexorable  reality. 


259 


CHAPTER   XVIII 

|ICK  SWEENY  was  not  a  man  to  remain 
silent  over  what  he  had  seen  the  night  of  the 
church  fire.  He  repeated  what  he  had  told 
me  of  MacKillop's  treacherous  act.  Donald 
Campbell,  who  had  been  holding  the  nozzle 
with  Sweeny,  confirmed  the  latter's  story.  But  a  careful 
canvass  of  the  situation  made  it  evident  that  the  crime  of 
attempted  murder  could  not  be  proven  against  MacKillop  in 
a  court  of  justice.  He  could  easily  claim  that  he  was  fighting 
the  fire  back  from  Bain,  and  that  the  high  pressure  in  the 
hose  had  caused  the  nozzle  to  swerve. 

There  was  a  tacit  understanding  that  MacKillop  would 
have  to  leave  lona.  I  saw  the  full  extent  of  this  one  day 
when  I  chanced  into  the  Plowshare  tavern.  I  had  gone  there 
in  quest  of  a  man  to  spade  the  Memsahib's  garden. 

As  I  passed  from  the  hall  into  a  general  lounging  room 
that  was  next  the  bar,  a  falsetto  voice,  familiar,  perhaps  half 
an  octave  higher  through  environing  inspiration,  fell  upon 
my  ear.  It  was  Sweeny's,  and  he  was  saying:  "  Well,  b'ys, 
here's  to  the  fire  brigade,  and  the  waterworks — though  I'm 
not  for  much  water  in  mine,  I'll  leave  that  fixin'  to  the  land- 
lord." 

260 


The  Lone  Furrow 


I  knew  as  well  as  though  I  had  seen  it  that  the  speaker 
winked  diabolically  down  the  avenue  of  grinning  faces,  that 
lined  the  bar. 

"  Here's  to  the  fire  brigade!  "  Sweeny  continued;  "  and 
to  the  sandiest  man  in  lona,  barrin'  none,  Malcolm  Bain." 

"  By  God !  you're  right  there,  Dick,"  some  one  in  the  line 
answered.  "  I've  seen  game  men  in  my  time — I  see  a  chap 
get  the  V.  C.  in  Africa  last  year  for  takin'  a  less  chance  than 
Bain  took." 

I  heard  the  front  door  open  and  close,  and  turning  my 
head  saw  MacKillop. 

He  entered  the  outer  room,  scanning  its  occupants  fur- 
tively; his  face,  always  vicious  in  its  sneering  uncertainty, 
now  carried  lines  that  were  not  alone  of  weariness  or 
physical  toil.  I  felt  that  he  was  an  outcast  wary  of  his  fel- 
lows, and  yet  a  cry  in  his  heart  for  even  casual  companionship. 

He  took  a  hesitating  step  that  carried  him  to  where  two 
men  sat. 

"How  are  you,  Andy?"  he  greeted,  holding  out  his 
hand ;  "  how  d'ye  like  farmin'  out  in  Manitoba — have  you 
just  come  back  for  a  visit  to  the  old  place?  " 

I  watched  curiously  for  the  result  of  this  experiment.  The 
man  he  addressed  rose,  and  took  the  proffered  hand,  saying: 
"I'm  not  so  bad —  How's  tricks  with  yourself,  Archie? 
Manitoba's  all  right — I  just  got  home  last  night." 

"  Will  you  take  something,  Andy?  "  MacKillop  queried. 

"  I  don't  mind,"  the  man  replied. 

Just  as  they  reached  the  barroom  door  Sweeny's  voice 
came  shrilly,  saying:  "And,  b'ys,  here's  eternal  damnation  to 
a  treacherous  murderer  that  hangin's  too  good  fer." 

MacKillop's  face  darkened ;  he  hesitated  for  an  instant, 
261 


The  Lone   Furrow 


then  entered  the  room  and  walked  up  to  the  bar.  The  man 
next  him  put  down  his  glass  with  half  the  liquor  in  it  and 
drew  away. 

Sweeny,  standing  with  his  back  to  MacKillop,  said: 
"  B'ys,  I'm  agin  lynch  law,  but  there's  times  when  it's  a 
damn  good  thing." 

He  turned  quickly  at  the  sound  of  MacKillop's  voice, 
who  was  saying  to  the  bartender:  "  Here,  Charlie,  give  us 
a  drink." 

The  file  of  men  faced  about,  and  seeing  the  speaker, 
moved  away.  The  bartender  turned  and  busied  himself  dust- 
ing some  bottles. 

"  Charlie!    I  want  a  drink!"  MacKillop  repeated. 

The  man  at  the  bottles  dusted  in  silence. 

MacKillop  picked  up  a  glass  and  struck  the  oaken  barrier 
sharply.  Charlie  faced  about,  a  frown  drawing  his  heavy 
black  eyebrows  together  in  a  sullen  look  of  defiance. 

"  You  must  be  deaf,"  declared  MacKillop.  "  Give  us  a 
drink — d'  you  hearl  " 

"  Yes — I  hear ;  but  I  won't  serve  you." 

I  saw  Andy's  lean,  toil-conditioned  head  go  up  in  com- 
bative rigidity.  His  grizzled  red  beard  bristled  in  anger 
as  he  said:  "  Look  here — damn  your  cheek! — am  I  an  Injun 
that  I'm  refused  a  drink?  " 

There  was  no  sound  save  the  voices  of  this  little  group ; 
the  others  stood  in  listening  attitude,  glorying  in  the  stand 
Barkeeper  Charlie  had  taken. 

"  I'm  sorry,  Mr.  Black,"  the  latter  said ;  "  you  can  have 
anything  that's  in  the  house — what'll  you  drink?" 

"  I'm  drinkin'  with  Archie  MacKillop,"  Black  answered ; 
"  an'  if  he  drinks,  I  drink;  an'  if  he  don't,  I  don't." 

262 


The  Lone  Furrow 


I  admired  the  speaker's  loyalty,  and  knew  that,  having 
been  away,  he  was  probably  unaware  of  the  feeling,  even  of 
the  suspicion  against  his  companion. 

"  If  you  don't  serve  me,"  declared  MacKillop,  "  I'll 
break  your  license;  where's  the  boss  —  where's  Mac- 
Gregor?" 

"  Here  I  am,"  a  short,  thick-set  man  answered,  stepping 
forward. 

"  I'm  refused  a  drink  in  this  bar,"  MacKillop  said  an- 
grily. 

"  Well,  try  some  other  place,"  MacGregor  replied  with 
disdain  in  his  voice. 

This  quiet  dispassionate  answer  roused  a  devil  of  fury  in 
the  other  man ;  the  words  stung  him  deeper  than  angry  oaths 
would  have.  His  resentment  turned  on  Sweeny — no  doubt 
MacKillop  had  heard  what  the  Irishman  had  said  of  Bain's 
accident. 

His  passion  blinded  him.  The  drink  he  had  come  in  for, 
the  bartender,  the  proprietor — everything  was  eliminated  but 
the  presence  of  the  man  he  blamed  as  the  author  of  his  ostra- 
cism. He  broke  forth  in  a  torrent  of  abuse. 

"  I  know  why  you  won't  give  me  a  drink,  you  whisky- 
slingin'  swine!  It's  because  of  that  Papist's  lyin'  tongue. 
He's  set  out  to  ruin  me.  I'm  an  outcast.  That  long-legged, 
red-mouthed  mick  has  been  tellin'  about  that  I  tried  to  do 
up  Bain.  .  .  .  Stand  back,  you  fellows,  an'  give  me  a  show ; 
if  you  don't,  by  Hell !  as  sure  as  God  made  little  apples  I'll 
cut  your  hearts  out!" 

"  Here,  you,  be  quiet,"  began  MacGregor. 

"  Look  out,  Dick !  "  warned  one  of  the  others. 

"Let  him  come!  By  hickory,  I'm  here!"  Sweeny  an- 
263 


svvered,  backing  against  the  wall,  and  just  missing  a  vicious 
blow  that  the  enraged  man,  darting  forward  with  stooped 
shoulders,  aimed  at  his  stomach. 

Before  Sweeny  could  swing  his  big  fist  something  of  elas- 
tic strength  caught  MacKillop,  and  drew  him  to  the  other 
end  of  the  room.  This  power  was  Andy  Black's  long  arm. 
Now  he  had  dexterously  shifted  his  position,  and  held  by  the 
chest  the  man  who  was  half  maniac. 

The  proprietor,  too,  had  clutched  an  arm,  and  was  say- 
ing: "You'll  keep  still,  Archie,  or  I'll  call  the  constable  in 
a  holy  minute;  and  you'll  go  down  to  the  county  jail  for 
this,  or  my  name's  not  MacGregor." 

When  the  man  of  violence  was  quieted  a  little,  Black 
turned  to  Sweeny  and  the  others,  saying:  "  Don't  make  any 
mistake,  you  fellows,  I'm  standing  at  Archie's  back." 

"  Faith,  he'll  need  it  if  he  comes  at  me  again,"  declared 
Sweeny. 

"  Just  hold  your  horses,  Dick,"  advised  Andy;  "  I'm  not 
spoilin*  for  a  fight,  but  I  came  in  here  to  drink  with  Archie, 
an'  I'm  goin'  to  see  him  through  his  trouble  if  he's  gettin'  the 
worst  of  it.  I  just  want  to  know  the  ins  and  outs  of  this. 
It's  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  was  ever  refused  a  drink,  an' 
I  want  to  know  the  reason." 

"  You're  shovin'  your  oar  in,  Black,"  retorted  Sweeny, 
for  he  was  angry;  "  I  wouldn't  poke  another  man's  fire  if  I 
was  you." 

"  I'm  interested,  ain't  I  ? "  Black  queried  crossly. 
"  When  Andy  Black  goes  back  on  a  chum  just  because 
there's  a  dozen  against  him  you'll  find  pigs  in  the  moon — 
do  you  understand  that,  Dick  Sweeny  ?  I  want  to  get  at  the 
bottom  of  this." 

264 


The  Lone  Furrow 


MacGregor  nudged  the  speaker,  and  together  they  left 
the  bar. 

Presently  Black  returned,  and  facing  MacKillop,  said: 
"  I'm  not  wantin'  a  drink  now.  I'm  thinkin'  you'll  be  better 
away  from  here,  man.  You'd  best  go,  MacKillop.  I'd  tell 
a  lie  if  I  said  I  was  sorry  for  you." 

With  a  curse  MacKillop  turned  and  passed  out  to  the 
street. 


18 


265 


CHAPTER   XIX 

|HERE  had  been  another  consultation  over  Rob- 
ert Craig — Doctor  Colton  coming  from  York 
for  it. 

While  the  boy  had  grown  stronger,  there 
was  no  evidence  of  improvement  in  the  injured 
part,  and  Dr.  Colton  advised  that  he  should  be  sent  to  Mon- 
treal where  a  famous  French  physician,  Dr.  Lupin,  a  spe- 
cialist in  hip  and  spine  diseases,  was  temporarily  practicing. 
Both  Malcolm  and  I  had  volunteered  to  take  Robert  to  Mon- 
treal, and  Jean,  half  reluctantly,  had  consented  to  part  with 
her  brother. 

The  storm  of  tragic  happenings  that  had  swirled  about 
our  heads,  leaving  so  much  mental  distress  in  its  wake,  seemed 
to  have  passed.  Indeed,  we  were  like  the  remaining  inhabi- 
tants of  a  place  devastated  by  a  tornado,  in  an  aftermath  of 
apathetic  desolation. 

Craig  was  to  be  taken  to  Montreal  Monday ;  and  Sunday 
evening,  sitting  alone  in  my  study,  the  Memsahib  having  gone 
to  church,  I  was  trying,  by  reading,  to  project  my  mind, 
esoterically,  across  seas  from  a  retrospective  contemplation  of 
the  village's  unpleasant  life  problems.  I  struck  fair  across  my 
domain,  not  taking  any  path,  by  just  reaching  to  a  shelf  for  as 

266 


The  Lone  Furrow 


many  books  as  would  come  away  in  fingers  stretched  to  an 
octave — leaving  even  the  looking  for  suitability  to  the  eyes  in 
the  finger  tips.  I  could  not  well  have  gotten  farther  from  the 
present  provincial  environment  had  I  consulted  a  list,  for  I 
opened  a  gray-tinged  book  that  carried  on  its  cover  the 
legend :  "  Croydon,  The  Teignmouth  Public  Library." 
Within  was  a  date  carrying  me  back  a  century;  and  the  pi- 
quant chatter  was  of  a  hundred  years  still  deeper  in  the  an- 
nals of  the  past.  A  fine  flavored,  joyous,  scintillant  atmos- 
phere, darting  its  rays  of  light  through  the  murk  of  London 
fogs  and  chop-house  smoke. 

Colley  Gibber  defending  his  comedies  against  the  scalpel 
of  Pope's  vicious  dissecting — Gibber  as  the  "  Author  "  de- 
fending his  work  against  Pope  personified  as  Mr.  Frankly. 
And  again  Pope  at  war  with  a  doughtier  knight,  Addison, 
smarting  under  the  older  man's  crushing,  insincere  patronage, 
painting  this  word-picture  of  an  enemy-friend: 

"  Damn  with  faint  praise,  assent  with  civil  leer ; 
And,  without  sneering,  teach  the  rest  to  sneer  ; 
Willing  to  wound,  and  yet  afraid  to  strike  ; 
Just  hint  a  fault,  and  hesitate  dislike." 

And  across  the  pages  of  my  book  of  the  Croydon  Library 
trooped  the  heavy  Warburton,  the  merry  Steele,  and  the  liter- 
ary mountebank,  Mallet;  the  imperious  Bolingbroke — dom- 
ineering, cursing  the  memory  of  Pope  over  the  printing  of 
1,500  copies  of  my  lord's  "Patriot  King,"  but  secretly  an- 
gered because  Pope  had  left  the  editing  of  his  works  to  War- 
burton  instead  of  His  Lordship  Bolingbroke.  Touches  of 
humor,  as  when  Mallet,  pompous  in  his  self-sufficiency,  com- 

267 


The  Lone  Furrow 


ing  upon  an  anonymous  new  thing,  "  Essay  on  Man,"  dis- 
missed it  with  a  contemptuous  fling  at  the  author's  lack  of 
quality  and  knowledge,  only  to  discover  later  that  it  was 
Pope's.  And  Gibber's  epigrammatic  verse  upon  the  failure 
of  his  play,  "Caesar  in  Egypt,"  declaring  in  one  line: 

"  'Twas  ne'er  in  Caesar's  destiny  to  run." 

And  again  when  King  Charles  put  the  merry  joke  of  the 
fishes  upon  the  learned  doctors  of  the  Royal  Society. 

Wondering  why  Pope  should  lay  down  his  pipes  to 
twang  upon  the  triangle  of  discord — plaster  a  festering  leaf 
of  his  "  Dunciad  "  over  a  wound  in  the  back  of  some  liter- 
ary swashbuckler,  when  he  might  have  piped  to  the  stars,  or 
echoed  the  travail  of  world-birth,  led  to  the  curious  thought 
that  these  literary  gods  were  very  like  the  men  of  lona  in 
their  crisscross  state  of  savagery. 

A  knock  at  the  door  brushed  it  all  away,  I  wishing  a  God- 
speed of  relief. 

Rising,  I  opened  the  door,  and  the  hall  light  flickered 
the  dark  face  of  MacKillop  into  relief  against  the  night 
background.  I  was  surprised  to  see  him,  of  all  men,  at  the 
Hedge. 

"  I'd  like  to  speak  to  you  a  minute,  Doctor  Cameron,"  he 
said,  and  in  an  indecision  of  reluctance  and  pity  I  swung  the 
door  wider  as  an  invitation.  He  sidled  in  nervously,  and  I 
closed  it  behind  him. 

"  I  want  to  see  Mrs.  Munro,  if  I  can,"  he  said. 

"I'm  afraid  you  can't,"  I  answered  with  brevity;  "she 
is  with  her  brother,  and  I'm  sure  she's  very  tired — perhaps  ly- 
ing down." 

268 


The  Lone  Furrow 


MacKillop  twirled  the  hat  he  held  in  his  hand  depre- 
catingly ;  he  was  turning  something  over  in  his  mind. 

I  waited. 

"  I  know  what  it  is,  Dr.  Cameron,"  he  said;  "  I  might 
as  well  be  Lazarus " 

"  Come  in  here,"  I  invited,  interrupting  him,  and  leading 
the  way  into  my  study,  closing  the  door  behind  us. 

"What  is  it  you  want  to  see  Mrs.  Munro  about?"  I 
asked.  "  Under  the  circumstances  this  is  my  business,  for 
here  we  seek  to  save  her  trouble — she  has  had  enough." 

"  I  can't  tell  you,"  MacKillop  answered;  "but  I've  just 
got  to  see  her.  God,  man!  is  there  no  such  thing  as  mercy,  or 
humanity?  Am  I  Cain,  to  be  turned  from  every  door?  " 

It  was  the  appeal  of  a  broken  man,  a  man  beyond  evil 
intent.  A  sudden  surmise  came  to  me  that  he  was  here  in 
the  way  of  atonement ;  and  was  I  to  remain  hard — should  I 
grind  the  nether  millstone? 

"  Wait,"  I  said ;  "  I  will  speak  to  Mrs.  Munro — sit  here 
till  I  return." 

I  told  Jean  that  MacKillop  had  come;  adding  that  she 
had  better  see  him.  She  came  down  the  stairs,  and  I, 
showing  her  to  the  study,  waited  in  the  dining  room.  I 
could  hear  MacKillop's  voice  pleading  with  compelling 
intensity. 

Presently  Jean  called  me  into  the  study,  saying:  "Mr. 
MacKillop  wishes  to  see  Robert.  I  think  I  shouldn't  allow 
it,  but  I'll  consent  if  you'll  go  up  with  him,  Doctor — just  for 
a  minute." 

MacKillop's  face  at  once  slipped  into  the  distrustful  look 
of  a  wary,  hunted  wolf.  "  I  was  wantin'  to  see  him  alone," 
he  said  sullenly. 

269 


The  Lone   Furrow 


"I  can't  permit  it,"  Jean  answered  decisively;  "you 
would  only  excite  him." 

"  It's  impossible,"   I  confirmed. 

"  Well,  if  I  can't,  I  can't;  I'll  go  up  with  Doctor  Cam- 
eron. I  just  got  to  see  Bob,  and  say  something  that's  on  my 
mind.  I'd  better  be  dead  than  walkin'  the  floor  with  it  night 
after  night.  Thank  you,  Mrs.  Munro." 

"  Wait  here  a  minute,  please — I'll  see  if  Robert  is 
awake,"  Jean  requested. 

When  she  had  gone  MacKillop  turned  to  me,  saying: 
"  I'm  goin'  to  make  a  clean  breast  of  the  whole  thing.  I'm  in 
hell — this  village  is  a  livin'  hell — that's  what  it  is.  But  I 
don't  care  that " — he  snapped  his  ringers — "  for  the  whole 
gang  of  them;  they  can  do  their  dirtiest.  Nor  for  Bain — 
curse  him !  But  the  poor  boy,  lyin'  upstairs  there,  he  got  the 
worst  of  it — and  it  was  never  meant.  As  God's  my  judge, 
Dr.  Cameron,  I  didn't  know  it  was  Craig  that  Bain  had  a 
hold  of." 

"  Never  mind — don't  talk  about  it,"  I  advised. 

"  I've  got  to — I'm  driven  to  it;  that's  what  I'm  here  for 
to-night.  I've  been  hounded  by  the  men  of  this  hole  as  if  I 
was  Cain.  If  I  was  Dives  in  Hell  beggin'  for  a  drink  of 
water  I  wouldn't  get  it  from  them.  But  I  can  stand  that — 
curse  them!  When  I  had  money  some  that  turns  their 
backs  now  was  glad  to  help  me  drink  it  up — and  they 
did." 

"  Drinking  friends  are  not  of  much  account  when  the 
pinch  comes,"  I  remarked. 

"  They'll  turn  on  you  like  a  dog  when  you're  down ; 
but  it's  only  Bob  that  I'm  worryin'  over.  We  were  chums, 
Doctor,  and  he  was  white  clean  through,  if  he  did  drink. 

270 


The  Lone  Furrow 


Man!  do  you  think  I'd  want  to  hurt  the  lad  I  never  had  a 
cross  word  with  in  my  life?  We  went  to  school  together,  and, 
though  I'm  ashamed  to  say  it  now,  we  got  drunk  together  a 
hundred  times." 

"  I  hope  you'll  not  go  on  like  this  upstairs,  MacKillop." 

"  I  won't — that's  why  I'm  telling  you.  I've  got  to  put  it 
off  my  mind — I've  got  to  tell  some  one — it's  settin'  me  fair 
crazy ;  you  won't  split  " — he  put  his  hand  on  my  arm,  and 
his  eyes,  in  wrhich  dissipation  had  mapped  little  rivers  of  blood 
and  yellow  ocher,  looked  at  me  from  under  heavy  black  brows 
like  the  eyes  of  a  pleading  dog;  "  give  me  your  word,  man  to 
man,  that,  save  you're  asked  in  court,  you'll  never  mention 
what  you  hear  to-night." 

"  I  give  you  my  word — I'm  sorry  for  you,  MacKillop," 
I  declared. 

"  That's  the  first  kind  word  I've  heard  for  days.  I'm 
starvin'  for  somebody  to  say  '  MacKillop  '  as  they  used  to. 
And  as  God's  my  judge  I  never  meant  it  against  the  boy, 
never.  I  saw  Bain  and  my  eyes  just  went  hot  with  blood — 
I'd  been  drinkin'." 

"  How  did  it  happen?"  I  asked. 

"  Me  and  Maloney  was  holdin'  the  hose,  playin'  the 
water  on  the  floor,  when  all  at  once  I  felt  a  jerk — Maloney 
slipped.  I  could  a  held  the  nozzle  off  Bain,  but  I  didn't. 
God  forgive  me,  the  chance  come,  and  I  took  it.  But  I  didn't 
know  it  was  Bob;  and  Bain,  the  man  I  held  the  grudge 
against,  got  next  to  nothin',  and  the  poor  boy  that  I  would 
have  stood  by  got  the  worst  of  it.  I  heard  that  they  were 
sendin'  him  to  Montreal  Monday,  and  they're  sayin'  that  he'll 
never  come  back  alive,  and  I've  come  to  ask  him  to  forgive 
me.  He's  the  only  one  I  care  for ;  the  village  can  go  to  hell ! 

271 


The  Lone  Furrow 


Them  that  turns  their  backs  on  me — half  of  them,  are  pray- 
ing hypocrites." 

"  You  may  come  up  now,  please,"  Jean's  voice  sounded 
down  the  stairs. 

"  Mind,  MacKillop,"  I  abjured,  "  the  boy  is  all  gone  to 
pieces  in  his  nerves,  and  you  mustn't  get  him  excited." 

I  preceded  the  penitent.  Twice  I  stopped  and  looked 
back,  not  hearing  his  footfall  on  the  carpeted  stair ;  each  time 
he  was  three  steps  behind  me.  A  nervous  reluctance  such  as 
makes  weak  the  limbs  of  a  man  mounting  the  scaffold  was 
over  MacKillop's  heart. 

There  was  a  wan,  tired  smile  of  welcome  on  Robert's 
face  as  MacKillop  hesitated  just  within  the  door;  and  then, 
at  a  touch  from  me  on  his  arm  he  took  the  chair  Jean  had 
placed  beside  the  bed. 

A  thin  hand  stretched  toward  MacKillop.  He  took  it 
in  his  own  and  pressed  it  to  his  lips. 

"  I'm  glad  you've  come,  Archie,"  the  boy  said ;  "  I'm  glad 
to  see  you  again." 

MacKillop's  black,  shaggy  head  was  bent  down  over  Rob- 
ert's hand,  and  in  a  jerky  voice  he  said:  "  Bob,  I  didn't  mean 
it — I  didn't  mean  to  hurt  you,  Bob — I  didn't  know  you  was 
there — before  God,  I  didn't,  Bob.  If  you'll  say  you  forgive 
me  you'll  take  a  load  off  my  mind.  I'd  rather  die  to-night 
than  live  a  hundred  years  thinkin'  you  held  this  out  against 
me.  God  in  heaven!  it's  awful,  Bob,  to  think  that  I  brought 
this  to  you,  and  I  didn't  mean  it." 

MacKillop's  plea  for  forgiveness  was  crude  in  sincerity, 
just  a  repetition  of  the  boy's  name  and  confession  of  the  black- 
ness of  his  treachery. 

"  I  know,  Archie,  you  wouldn't  injure  me  willingly," 
272 


The  Lone  Furrow 


Robert  said,  his  voice  weak,  uttering  the  words  wearily.  "  I 
forgive  you — you  didn't  mean  it." 

"I  didn't,  Bob— I  didn't!  but  I  feel  as  bad  as  if  I'd 
meant  it.  It  ain't  fair,  Bob;  you  that  never  hurt  nobody 
smashed  up,  and  me  the  cause  of  it!  " 

"  It  was  the  drink,  Archie;  that's  what  did  it  all.  It  was 
that  Devil  that  put  me  to  sleep  in  the  church,  and  made  you 
hold  the  grudge  against  Bain." 

The  boy's  head  sank  back  on  the  pillow  wearily,  and  Mac- 
Killop,  holding  his  hand,  sat  silent.  And  the  same  silence 
was  over  all  the  room. 

Presently  Robert  spoke  again:  "Archie,  this  smash  isn't 
all  bad,  for  I've  conquered  the  drink-devil  that  caused  it ; 
will  you  do  something  for  me — to  make  good  ?  " 

"  Anything  you  can  ask,  Bob." 

"  Will  you  promise  to  cut  out  the  whisky?  You  were  a 
good  man  before  it  got  the  upper  hand." 

"  With  God's  help  I  will!  " 

"You'll  try  hard,  Archie?" 

"  /  will  I  I'm  goin'  to  make  a  new  start;  I'm  goin'  away 
to  the  States.  I  couldn't  leave  lona  till  I'd  asked  you  to  for- 
give me,  Bob ;  I  just  couldn't  go  away  till  I'd  seen  you." 

"  But  there's  something  else  before  you  go,  Archie — you 
must  do  it  for  my  sake.  You  must  go  to  Bain  and  ask  him 
to  forgive  you." 

MacKillop  sat  silently  pulling  at  his  mustache,  his  eyes  on 
the  thin  fingers  he  held  in  his  hand.  I  could  read  the  fierce 
turmoil  that  was  in  his  heart.  He  hated  Bain.  It  was  a  dif- 
ferent thing  from  coming  to  ask  forgiveness  of  the  boy  whom 
he  had  unwittingly  injured.  Besides,  how  would  Bain  take 
it;  would  he  not  turn  upon  him  in  scorn?  I  knew  these 

273 


The  Lone  Furrow 


thoughts  were  passing  through  the  man's  mind.  They 
found  utterance  when  he  said:  "  It  wouldn't  do,  Bob;  Bain 
wouldn't  give  in ;  he'd  only  take  advantage  of  what  I  said  and 
have  me  up." 

"You're  wrong,  Archie;  Bain  is  too  much  of  a  man  for 
that.  Come,  Archie,  promise" 

The  thin  fingers  pulled  gently  in  the  other's  strong  palm ; 
they  drew  the  reluctance  out  of  MacKillop  and  he  yielded. 

"  I  owe  you  more  than  that,  Bob ;  I'll  do  it,  no  matter 
how  Bain  takes  it.  I'm  glad  I  came — God  bless  you,  old 
man!  You'll  be  gettin'  better  in  Montreal — they'll  cure  you 
there.  And  if  I  come  to  any  good  myself,  I'll  come  back  to 
see  you." 

He  carried  the  boy's  fingers  to  his  lips,  then  rose  with  a 
great  sigh. 

"  Good-by,  Archie ;  don't  forget,"  Robert  said. 

As  MacKillop  passed  Jean,  standing  by  the  door,  he  hesi- 
tated, turning  awkwardly,  and  said:  "I  thank  you,  Mrs. 
Munro.  I'm  sorry  for  all  the  trouble  and  pain  I've  given 
you  without  meanin'  to.  I'm  sorry;  I'm  goin'  to  stick  to  my 
promise  to  Bob." 

Jean  held  out  her  hand  to  MacKillop.  He  took  it  hesi- 
tatingly, as  a  man  feeling  guilty  of  some  crime  might  accept 
the  sacrament. 

MacKillop  had  crept  in  as  a  fugitive  animal;  he  went 
out  more  erect,  like  a  man  who  had  escaped  a  death  penalty. 

The  confessional!  Like  a  stanch  Protestant  the  confes- 
sional box  to  me  savored  of  abhorrent  mystery,  a  dangerous 
acquiring  of  power  over  humans;  but  here  was  confession 
itself  a  purifying  fire,  something  to  lift  a  depressing  load 
from  off  a  tired  soul ;  how  a  man,  taking  thought  with  him- 

274 


The  Lone  Furrow 


self,  could  add  to  his  stature,  not  alone  morally,  but,  as  in 
MacKillop's  case,  physically. 

I  could  have  sat  at  the  shrine  of  the  open  grate  hours  with 
this  psychological  manifestation,  but  the  Memsahib  fluttered 
in,  casting  off,  in  a  wonderfully  petulant  mood  for  her,  parti- 
cles of  the  dreary  municipal-church  atmosphere  with  the  dis- 
carding of  her  wraps.  With  the  unpinning  of  her  hat  it  was: 
"  I  declare  it  makes  one  almost  fancy  that,  after  all,  there  is 
something  of  comfort  in  the  mummery  of  the  Catholic 
Church,  and  the  ritual  of  the  Anglicans." 

"  Dear  me !  "  I  exclaimed,  for  I  could  not  have  been 
more  startled  had  the  ceiling  suddenly  come  down  upon  me. 

"  It's  just  disheartening!  " — one  arm  out  of  her  jacket — 
"  the  minister's  squeaky  voice  was  just  a  whine,  beating  petu- 
lantly against  the  barren  walls  of  that  hall ;  and  for  the  choir 
to  sing  an  anthem  to  a  croupy  little  melodeon,  tortured  into 
revolt  by  a  girl  without  any  ear  for  music,  from  a  dismal 
stage,  is  just  a  little  too  much  even  for  me,  and  I  think  I'm 
patient  enough." 

"  Yes,  a  church  ought  to  be  nice  and  comfortable,"  I  com- 
mented maliciously;  "  the  draughts  in  that  hall  are  enough  to 
give  the  regular  sleepers  their  death  of  colds.  And  as  for 
snoring — it's  simply  out  of  the  question  in  that  resonant 
chamber.  What  we  want  nowadays  is  a  good  comfortable 
religion."  The  Memsahib  had  shed  the  last  of  her  irritation 
with  her  rubbers,  and  now,  warmed  by  the  grate  fire,  was 
ready  for  combat  on  the  other  side.  "  It's  these  tiny  thorn- 
pricks  that  stand  us  convicted  of  revolt  at  the  first  crying  of 
the  cock,"  I  continued,  shoving  a  hassock  beneath  her  little 
feet. 

"  Nobody's  in  revolt,"  she  objected. 
275 


The  Lone  Furrow 


"  Half  the  congregation  is  now,  I'll  venture,"  I  con- 
tended, "  as  three  parts  of  it  was  when  Neil  Munro  sat  them 
on  the  uneasy  bench  of  their  own  sinfulness.  Is  it  to  be  won- 
dered, then,  that  Jean,  tried  as  she  has  been,  is  in  full  seces- 
sion?" 

"  Jean  is  not  in  rebellion  against  God ;  she  is  only  puzzled 
to  a  point  of  questioning;  and  that  generally  leads  to  stronger 
allegiance  in  the  end.  No  one  can  honestly,  seriously  face  the 
glorious  subject  of  God's  omnipotence  and  power  without 
finally  being  convinced  that  it  is  the  only  wise  guiding  force 
for  humanity.  As  you  say,  husband,  she  has  been  tried,  and 
to  a  greater  extent  than  either  of  us  know.  There  is  some 
depth  to  this  mystery  more  terrible  than  we  imagine,  I  fear. 
Both  she  and  Robert  carry  something  on  their  minds  that  no 
suffering,  no  desolation  of  present  misery  brings  them  to  re- 
veal. But  her  nature  is  beautiful,  and  when  it  is  all  past 
we'll  know  how  extraordinarily  beautiful  it  is,  and  we'll  dis- 
cover that  she  is  a  real  Christian  at  heart." 

"  Even  Robert's  character  is  much  finer  than  I  thought  it 
— I  saw  beneath  the  surface  to-night,"  I  added ;  "  MacKillop 
has  been  here — he  came  to  ask  the  boy's  forgiveness." 

The  Memsahib  could  only  remain  silent  in  her  astonish- 
ment, and  I  related  what  had  occurred. 

"  It  is  just  marvelous,"  she  said,  "  how  our  life  here  has 
been  drawn  out  of  its  simple  sweetness  into  all  this  tragic  liv- 
ing, with  its  different  phases  of  crime  and  devotion  and  re- 
pentance. I  can  almost  hear  the  wings  of  the  Death  Angel 
fluttering  about  the  place  where  before  the  rustle  of  the  maple 
leaves  in  summer,  or  the  drive  of  snow  against  the  window 
in  winter,  was  all  we  heard.  I've  always  maintained  that 
no  man  is  beyond  human  feeling." 

276 


The  Lone   Furrow 


"  Yes,  MacKillop  certainly  was  pretty  bad.  It's  like  that 
song  you  sing: 

"  '  As  gold  must  be  tried  by  fire, 
So  a  heart  must  be  tried  by  pain.' 

And  the  trying  of  the  human  heart  gives  the  most  unlooked- 
for  results.  Here  was  a  man,  fair  prototype  of  the  Fallen 
Angel,  and  to-night,  haunted  by  remorse  at  having  injured 
a  boy  whom  he  evidently  was  capable  of  holding  regard 
for,  he  comes,  humbling  himself  in  confessional,  to  crave 
forgiveness.  No  doubt  MacKillop  was  made  sane  by  the  re- 
tributive justice  which  the  villagers  so  unsparingly  applied. 
And  we  also  see  Robert's  character  with  the  poison  ivy  all 
burned  away  in  the  fire,  standing  clear  and  beautiful,  like  a 
healthy  young  tree.  On  the  other  hand  Jean,  of  whom  one 
should  expect  just  this  condition  of  mind,  is  possessed  of  dan- 
gerous questionings." 

The  Memsahib  laid  her  hand  on  my  arm  in  a  gentle  em- 
phasis as  she  said  earnestly :  "  Just  as  MacKillop  and  Robert 
have  had  light  thrust  into  their  darkened  lives,  so  will  Jean. 
God  is  sending  her  a  little  saviour.  God's  ways  are  mysteri- 
ous, simply  because  they  are  too.  great  for  our  weak  under- 
standing. He  and  He  alone  can  brighten  Jean's  life,  and 
answer  her  questionings." 


CHAPTER   XX 

|E  had  all  worried  considerably  over  the  going 
of  Craig — I  could  feel  a  sympathetic  wrench 
in  my  back  every  time  I  thought  of  moving 
the  boy.  But  practical,  methodical  Bain 
had  oiled  all  the  wheels.  A  stretcher  had 
been  provided,  and  strong-armed  men  to  carry  Robert  to 
the  train.  The  terrible  trial  the  parting  would  be  to  Jean 
was  lessened  by  the  physical  ease  with  which  the  removal 
was  accomplished. 

We  waited  in  Montreal  for  Dr.  Lupin's  diagnosis  of 
Robert's  case.  The  doctor  sent  us  away  with  a  slight  hope, 
which  we  enlarged  upon  for  Jean's  benefit — trying  to  assume 
the  debonair  manner  of  schoolboys  home  for  a  holiday. 

Immediately  most  wonderful  letters  commenced  to  arrive 
from  Robert's  nurse,  Eloise.  They  contained  an  astounding 
knowledge  of  the  pathology  of  spine  diseases,  especially  of 
Robert's  case.  Such  roseate  pictures  of  convalescence  were 
rendered  that  I  should  not  have  been  surprised  to  have  seen 
Robert  walk  in,  fit  and  well,  any  day. 

When  I  spoke  of  these  letters  to  Bain,  remarking  upon 
the  extraordinary  interest  Eloise  took  in  the  case,  giving 
up  a  considerable  portion  of  her  time  to  this  letter  writing, 

278 


The  Lone  Furrow 


he  smiled  grimly,  saying:  "Yes,  Mam'selle  is  keeping  to  her 
bargain  honestly  enough.  I  was  a  little  uneasy,  for  I  haven't 
great  faith  in  the  French." 

"What  bargain?"  I  asked. 

"  Mam'selle  has  five  dollars  a  week  for  the  clerkship ; 
I  left  the  money  with  a  friend  to  give  her.  I  was  thinking 
that  it  would  help  Jean  bear  up.  It's  the  fretting  over  trou- 
ble and  pain  that  is  worse  than  the  thing  itself.  It's  diffi- 
cult for  a  man  with  much  imagination  to  be  brave." 

"  But  Eloise  is  rather  overdoing  it,  I'm  afraid,"  I  ob- 
jected. "  What  if  a  black  letter  of  despair  were  suddenly 
to  come  to  Jean — the  shock  would  be  terrible." 

"  I  just  thought  of  that  when  I  was  arranging  this,  and 
I  get  a  more  reliable  letter  myself  from  Mam'selle.  So  far 
there's  no  very  great  difference  in  the  correspondence,  I 
think.  Perhaps  the  nurse  is  running  a  few  minutes  ahead 
of  time  in  her  letters  to  Jean,  but  Robert  is  holding  his  own. 
Dr.  Lupin  has  fine  hopes." 

"  Does  he  think  Robert  will  get  well  and  strong  again?  " 

"I  think  not — not  strong;  he'll  be  a  cripple  for  life; 
but  at  that  he'll  be  a  better  man  than  as  he  was — strong  of 
limb  but  wrecked  in  mind." 

As  Malcolm  walked  away  from  me  after  this  conversa- 
tion, I  was  conscious  of  the  magnetic  power  a  beautiful  men- 
tality has  over  a  person  brought  within  its  sphere  of  influ- 
ence, even  changing  one's  perspective  of  the  physical  taber- 
nacle of  that  mentality. 

Once  I  had  thought  Bain  awkward  in  his  movements, 
of  too  strong  a  physical  contour;  now  I  saw  a  tigerish  cer- 
tainty of  tread  in  his  walk — shorter  in  his  stride  than  a 
loose-jointed  unmuscular  man  of  his  height ;  his  great  weight 

279 


The  Lone   Furrow 


seemed  to  carry  rather  on  his  toes  than  on  his  heel,  as  a  prize- 
fighter walks;  his  head,  outlined  against  the  yellow  evening 
sky,  was  statuesque.  A  woman,  sitting  where  I  was,  and  in 
love  with  this  gentle  gladiator,  could  have  pictured  him  as  a 
Scandinavian  hero-god,  Odin  perhaps.  Here  was  that  sim- 
ple, generous  thought  of  his  about  the  letters.  And,  going 
down  in  the  train,  Robert  had  confided  to  me  that  Mac- 
Killop  had  kept  his  promise  and  gone  to  Bain,  and  Mal- 
colm had  not  only  forgiven,  but  had  given  him  money  to  go 
away  with  for  a  fresh  start  in  life. 

These  days  the  village  was  like  a  boat  lying  in  the  trough 
of  the  sea,  floundering  sullenly  as  though  almost  water- 
logged; the  only  movement  of  the  waters  a  long  ground 
swell,  the  sluggish  aftermath  of  the  storm  that  had  passed. 

By  a  process  of  elimination,  a  certain  quietude  of  com- 
ment had  supervened ;  the  busy  clatter  of  envious  tongues 
had  almost  stilled.  MacKillop  had  gone,  Robert  was  away, 
and  Minister  Munro  was  as  if  he  had  ceased  to  exist.  Jean 
was  scarcely  seen  of  the  villagers  now. 

They  were  the  audience  to  offer  a  little  of  approval  and 
a  great  deal  of  condemnation,  but  the  stage  was  almost  de- 
void of  actors,  and  so  they  turned  to  material  things  at  hand. 

In  truth  the  church  people  now  wrangled  among  them- 
selves over  a  tangible  something,  a  something  that  every- 
body understood  thoroughly,  from  MacKay  down  to  the 
printer's  devil  on  the  village  paper.  This  something  was 
the  rebuilding  of  the  kirk.  There  were  workmen,  carpen- 
ters, masons,  painters  at  work,  but  they  were  there  to  be 
advised,  to  be  corrected,  to  be  found  fault  with.  The  vil- 
lagers hurried  from  their  daily  toil  to  their  homes  in  the 
evening,  released  by  the  clanging  town  bell,  bolted  their 

280 


The  Lone  Furrow 


suppers,  and  dashed  back  to  the  grassed  lawn  about  the  kirk 
to  explain  to  each  other  just  where  the  work  of  reconstruc- 
tion was  faulty.  It  was  chiefly  matters  of  detail  that  pro- 
duced the  fiercest  wrangles.  The  color  scheme  for  the  in- 
terior, entirely  foreign  to  everyone's  conception,  naturally 
evoked  the  deepest  interest.  In  a  way  each  member  of  the 
congregation,  knowing  his  neighbor's  weakness  in  this  affair 
of  art,  felt  safe  in  taking  a  strong  position  on  the  subject. 

The  painter  himself  was  entirely  ignored.  It  was  thought 
that  years  of  brushing  at  secular  edifices,  such  as  barns, 
fences,  and  cottages,  must  have  entirely  eliminated  his  artis- 
tic perceptions.  Figuratively  he  was  brushed  to  one  side. 
For  a  week  the  citizens  dabbled  in  color — running  the"  whole 
gamut  of  pigments,  from  the  three  primaries  out  through 
the  secondaries,  and  along  the  radiating  ramifications  of  the 
tertiaries.  Shades  and  tones  that  had  never  seen  the  light 
before,  even  among  the  ambitious  students  of  Gerome,  or  the 
exuberant  colorists  who  chased  the  phantom  of  Monet's  jux- 
taposition of  wild  hues,  now  appeared  upon  the  interior  walls 
of  the  kirk,  brushed  there  by  the  patient  painter  at  the  insti- 
gation of  their  inventors.  Within,  the  church  looked  like  a 
piebald  horse,  a  zebra,  a  very  drunken  Alhambra,  a  Taj 
Mahal  on  which  the  colors  had  run. 

Something  was  sure  to  come  of  it  all,  so  they  squabbled 
with  avidity ;  while  we  of  the  Hedge  sat  in  rejoicing  at  their 
harmless  occupation. 

Nobody  knew  just  how  it  had  occurred,  but  the  Biblical 
inscription,  trailing  its  letters  along  the  arch  of  the  apse, 
went  all  awry.  It  should  have  read : 

"  Blessed  be  Jehovah,  Israel's  God," 
19  28l 


The  Lone  Furrow 


but  something  of  a  juggling  nature  had  occurred  in  the 
limning  of  the  sentiment.  It  was  as  though  a  printer's 
devil,  having  the  line  to  set  up,  had  used  Roman  and  Arabic 
characters  indiscriminately,  with  a  dash  of  Old  English  and 
a  sprinkling  of  German.  God's  name  stood  out  rather 
prominently,  and  that  is  all  that  could  be  said  in  its  favor. 
Jehovah  certainly  read  Jonah,  or  Godown,  or  a  vivid  fancy 
might  have  even  pictured  it  as  Golly.  The  letters  had  gone 
on  a  spree;  they  were  like  a  file  of  bluejackets  of  different 
nationalities,  very  full,  coming  down  a  main  street  arm  in 
arm.  They  leaned  groggily  up  against  each  other  where 
they  should  have  dressed  in  open  order;  and  they  turned 
away  in  disdain  where  their  natural  condition  should  have 
been  one  of  affinity. 

Bain  had  an  idea,  confided  to  me,  that  the  painter,  tired 
of  the  many  interferences,  had  deliberately  painted  them  a 
text  against  the  sin  of  meddling.  Malcolm  maintained  that 
the  line  carried  the  sign  manual  of  every  elder  in  the  church ; 
that  each  groggy  letter  was  meant  as  a  protest  to  each 
worthy's  officiousness. 

Nothing  could  escape  the  interested  Scots.  The  furnace 
pipe  running  the  full  length  of  the  basement  with  true  Celtic 
economy  of  heat  was  not  allowed  to  pursue  its  peaceful  career 
unchallenged ;  it  became  a  huge  serpent  of  insidious  discord. 
Varnish  was  the  medium  of  contention.  Mac  Kay  was 
strong  on  varnishes,  so  was  the  Undertaker;  and  Willie 
Watson  had  had  great  experiences  in  the  same  line.  But 
MacKay  brought  his  argument  to  bear  on  the  subject  in 
the  way  of  a  two-gallon  can  of  his  favorite  adhesive. 

"There!"  said  he,  planking  the  can  emphatically  in 
front  of  the  painter,  "  gi'e  it  a  coat  o'  that,  an'  if  anyone 

282 


The  Lone  Furrow 


objects  gi'e  it  another.  I  ha'e  stovepipes  in  my  house  for 
twelve  years  coated  with  that  preparation,  and  the  iron's 
all  rusted  awa',  but  the  pipes  still  stand  gude  as  ever — 
just  the  varnish,  mind  you,  not  a  trace  o'  the  original 
iron." 

It  was  a  strong  testimony,  likewise  the  varnish  was  to 
hand,  so  on  it  went.  MacKay  surveyed  the  glistening  pipe 
with  fatherly  pride,  saying:  "  For  many  a  year  I've  had  the 
stink  in  my  nostrils  o'  the  varnish  Willie  Watson  glued  they 
pipes  wi'.  Man  alive!  he  near  smothered  Tommy  the  sex- 
ton last  fall  when  the  fire  was  first  started.  I'll  take  my 
religion  wi'out  smells  if  I  can  manage  it." 

So  they  builded  away  at  the  kirk,  while  we  at  the  Hedge 
lay  becalmed  in  the  shadow  of  the  Albatross. 

The  first  evening  after  Robert's  going  away  Jean  had 
indulged  in  a  terrible  fit  of  despondency;  she  had  wept  her- 
self into  a  state  of  exhaustion.  Luckily  sleep,  erratic  agent 
of  solace,  had  come,  carrying  on  its  wings  Nirvana,  and  in 
the  morning  hope  had  touched  her  soul  with  courage. 

Then  for  a  time  the  letters  from  Nurse  Eloise  had  car- 
ried Jean  along  with  their  interest. 

We  never  spoke  of  Munro  now;  there  was  no  verbal 
admission  that  he  was  dead — we  just  waited  in  silence. 

The  summer,  dying  gloriously,  seemed  to  drag  the  earth 
with  it  to  some  huge  grave;  the  Autumn  air  carried  a  sense 
of  dissolution ;  the  earth  lay  in  restful  sleep,  like  a  Buddhist 
priest  on  a  funeral  pyre,  dressed  in  robes  of  tawny  gold 
awaiting  a  change.  The  spirit  of  transition  that  murked 
the  atmosphere  breathed  into  our  hearts,  and  I  saw  that 
Jean,  out  of  the  sheer  emptiness  of  a  life  that  held  only  a 
desolating  silence,  was  growing  morbidly  nervous. 

283 


The  Lone  Furrow 


"  We  must  do  something,"  I  said  to  the  Memsahib ; 
"  there  must  be  some  break  in  this  monotony.  Jean  is  like 
a  fretful  child  that  needs  a  watch  held  to  its  ear,  or  a  clat- 
tering toy  in  its  hand.  Something  in  this  way — we  must 
devise  a  change,  even  for  a  day." 

At  once  the  Memsahib  threw  a  hazard,  threw  it  with 
eyes  shut,  not  knowing  the  many  sixes  that  rolled  from  the 
box.  "  We'll  have  Molly  out  from  York,  and  drive  up  to 
see  Cousin  Beth  at  Valleyford.  The  drive  will  do  Jean 
good,  and  the  sight  of  Beth  in  her  brave  little  life  is  enough 
to  shame  one  into  courage." 

"  The  very  thing,"  I  answered.  To  me  Beth  was  a 
dream-lady.  I  knew  her  as  well;  all  about  her  plucky  fight 
against  adversity,  all  about  her  three  boys  and  Matthew, 
who  was  never  Mister  Anybody,  but  just  Cousin  Beth's 
husband.  And  yet  I  had  never  seen  the  little  body.  The 
sixteen-mile  drive  to  Valleyford  was  one  we  were  always  on 
the  point  of  taking,  but  something  always  interposed — bad 
roads,  or  storms,  or  lame  horses — always  something. 

So  Molly,  who  was  our  children's  Auntie,  was  got  out 
from  York,  and  the  next  morning  the  Memsahib  and  Jean 
and  Auntie  and  myself  started,  and,  at  the  last  minute,  we 
took  Kippie,  just  as  when  one  is  all  dressed  up  in  his  best 
he  pins  a  rosebud  on  the  lapel  of  his  coat. 

Tacitly  each  one  of  us  three,  who  were  consoling  servi- 
tors to  Jean,  had  determined  to  make  the  most  of  the  drive; 
and  Nature,  knowing  of  our  intent,  had  draped  the  gnarled 
oaks  and  spreading  maples  and  mighty  elms  with  Titanic 
design  and  rainbow  coloring. 

Keewatin  the  Bowman  had  shot  his  arrows,  which  are 
the  North  Wind,  frost-pointed,  into  the  heart  of  the  forest, 

284 


The  Lone  Furrow 


and  the  maple  leaves,  splashed  with  its  blood,  were  like  red 
letters  of  vengeance  crying  out  against  their  death. 

All  that  was  my  fancy,  and  Jean,  interested,  said  it  was 
very  beautiful. 

Then  the  Memsahib — the  forest-lined  road  taking  her 
back  to  the  'Burma  jungles — found  yellow-robed  priests, 
phoongyis,  in  the  tawny-leaved  oaks,  oriental  Druids;  and 
Molly  declared  that  the  dead  leaves  fluttering  to  earth  like 
stricken  birds  were  golden  sovereigns. 

To  Jean  the  hills  in  the  distance  were  on  fire.  That 
also  was  the  blood-red  stretch  of  crimson  maples;  and  about 
and  over  this  imaginative  conflagration  hung  the  blue  haze 
of  autumn  that  was  like  a  lacework  of  smoke. 

We  topped  one  hill  but  to  see  another;  valley  succeeded 
valley,  as  though  in  prehistoric  times  rivers  had  raced  side 
by  side  with  the  eroding  continuance  of  a  million  years. 

To  me  it  was  an  awakening.  Down  in  the  village,  a 
place  of  great  worth,  the  tillers  of  the  soil  coming  to  my 
door  with  butter  and  eggs  and  things  of  barter  were  men 
akin  to  peddlers;  but  here,  where  broad  acres  stretched 
forth  in  majesty  to  the  sky  line,  and  herds  rose  up  from 
their  grassy  couch  to  gaze  upon  us  with  eyes  of  equality, 
I,  transformed,  became  of  the  kin  of  the  packman,  seeing 
the  master  of  these  lands  of  production  a  monarch  reign- 
ing in  his  own  right,  his  huge  barn  a  fortress  stored  with 
ammunition  for  the  battle  of  life;  his  dwelling  a  feudal  castle 
with  none  to  cross  the  drawbridge  but  at  the  pleasure  of  its 
lord. 

Presently  the  Memsahib  discovered  a  border  of  flowers 
running  the  length  of  two  hundred  acres  of  land.  The  flow- 
ers were  lichens  and  mosses  that  had  homed  for  thirty  years 

285 


The  Lone  Furrow 


upon  the  weathered  fence.  Gentle  gray  greens  and  flesh 
pink  and  embossed  silver — altogether  beautiful  was  the  in- 
tricate witchery  of  this  monogram  which  was  Time's  initials 
engraved  upon  the  boards. 

Youth,  five  years  young,  sitting  astride  Kippie's  shoul- 
ders, touched  with  the  belladonna  of  ecstasy  her  big  won- 
dering eyes  till  they  glittered,  dark-blue  sapphires  of  de- 
light. Youth's  deft  pencil  curved  imaginative  lines  of  beauty 
about  a  ewe-necked,  broken-kneed,  sway-backed  old  mare 
in  a  clover  pasture  till  the  little  lady  exclaimed  with  joy, 
"See  the  lovely  colt!" 

I'm  sure  that  Jean  sighed ;  and  I  cried  exultantly,  "  A 
kingdom  for  such  rose-tinted  glasses !  " 

The  old  sheep  were  lambs,  and  a  dismal  pirate  of  a  cow- 
bird  a  robin,  to  Kippie. 

Slowly  we  jogged  up  Silver  Brook  hill  a  full  mile,  and 
at  the  top  such  a  panoramic  view  of  hazed  valleys  and 
golden-haired  hills  stretched  away  that  the  very  horses 
stopped  in  admiration.  Perhaps  in  reality  they  were  a  little 
blown,  but  I  allowed  them  to  linger,  for  there,  at  the  cost 
of  nothing,  we  had  come  into  the  possession  of  a  Turner 
worth  a  prince's  ransom,  or  was  it  a  Poussin,  or  a  Claude? 
Browns,  transparent  and  luminous,  pearly  grays  that  softened 
the  rude  outline  of  majestic  oaks,  and,  twining  in  and  out 
through  the  olive  green  of  a  pine-clothed  valley,  was  the 
glittering  thread  of  Silver  Brook.  Away  to  the  right,  nes- 
tling in  the  golden-brown  valley,  was  a  hamlet,  its  red- 
brick hostelry  and  church,  dim  bloodstones. 

"  It  is  beautiful !  "  Jean  exclaimed.  I  could  hear  her 
drinking  in  great  drafts  of  the  crisp  autumn  air,  that  with 
unseen  fingers  had  stolen  myrrh  and  frankincense  from  the 

286 


The  Lone  Furrow 


resinous  pines  and  the  browning  buds  of  the  cedar  for  the 
anointing  of  our  lungs  and  the  adoration  of  our  souls. 

"  See  yon  little  speck !  "  I  cried,  pointing  to  the  hamlet. 

"  That's  Silvertown,"  Jean  said. 

"  Strenuous  Scotchmen  built  that  place,"  I  added ;  "  great 
men  they  are  in  this  section;  great  men  among  men.  And 
yet  it  is  but  a  pinhead — God  made  all  the  rest." 

At  the  bottom  of  the  hill  we  dipped  into  a  leaf- 
roofed  tunnel,  and  the  Memsahib,  touching  my  arm,  said: 
"  There's  the  watering  trough ;  let  the  horses  have  a 
drink." 

From  a  little  pool  dappled  with  curly  watercress  crystal 
spring  water  purled  and  rippled  to  a  great  hollow  wooden 
log  beside  the  road.  Stately  rushes  nodded  their  brown  heads 
over  the  cress,  and  their  fairy-winged  seeds  were  now  speed- 
ing away  to  foreign  lands,  borne  on  the  autumn  wind.  A 
little  deeper  in  the  grotto,  where  the  tiny  stream  sang  over 
green-mossed  rocks,  grew  ferns  almost  indefinite  in  the  deli- 
cate tracery  of  their  sepia  fronds. 

When  I  threw  loose  the  checkreins,  the  horses  thrust 
their  muzzles  into  the  beaded  champagnelike  water,  nostril 
deep. 

We  had  come  leisurely — haste,  servantlike,  waiting  upon 
content — among  Earth's  tapestries  we  had  loitered,  so  the 
horses  were  not  too  hot  to  drink.  I  watched  huge  balls 
chase  each  other  down  their  stretching  throats,  and  soon, 
with  snorting  sighs  of  content,  the  happy  topers  shoved  back 
from  the  bar. 

The  Memsahib  called  down  to  me  as  I  drew  again  the 
check :  "If  men  were  as  wise  as  horses " 

"  They  are  in  some  things,"  I  interrupted. 
287 


The  Lone  Furrow 


"  When  horses  have  had  enough  to  drink  they  stop," 
she  said ;  "  but  men  are  not  so  wise." 

"  The  horses  are  lacking  in  development,"  I  objected. 
"  Baldy,  there,  if  he  knew  enough  to  say  to  Jack,  '  Here's  to 
you,  Jack,'  and  the  other  understood,  I've  no  doubt  they'd 
both  drink  too  much  for  their  good." 

It  was  a  revamped  Scotch  story  I  had  made  use  of  to 
refute  the  Memsahib;  but  Molly's  laugh  brought  another 
from  Jean,  and  I  felt  that  we  were  getting  on  nicely. 

And  so  through  the  land  beautiful,  gypsies  by  its  hum- 
bling force,  we  came  to  Cousin  Beth's  village. 

Valleyford  stands  like  a  meditative  stork  upon  one  leg, 
its  other  limb  (in  truth  it  never  had  one)  tucked  away  out 
of  sight;  and  in  the  missing  limb's  place  are  fields  of  wheat 
stubble,  and  purple-furrowed  land  showing  the  brown  with- 
ered foliage  of  potatoes  that  nestle  in  its  bosom.  For  a  mile 
on  our  right  was  the  urban  manifestation  of  men  living 
shoulder  to  shoulder,  and  to  our  left  the  suburban  solemnity 
of  fecund  farm  lands. 

"  In  the  name  of  all  grotesque  survey,  what  happened 
this  place  in  its  babyhood  ?  "  I  asked.  "  It's  like  half  a  shirt, 
it's  like  a  sleigh  with  one  runner,  it's  like  half  a  turkey  for 
a  Christmas  dinner." 

"  It  was  Rory  MacDonald  that  made  the  village  travel 
so  far,"  explained  Molly.  "  The  others  would  not  build 
the  kirk  on  the  spot  he  picked  out,  so  he  just  sat  down, 
dourlike,  vowing  that  he'd  '  Gie  them  the  full  o'  their 
ain  way — he'd  mak'  them  foot  it  a  lang  road  tae  wor- 
ship.' It's  all  his  land  on  the  left,  and  he  wouldn't  sell 
an  acre." 

"  Worthy  descendant  of  Bruce  of  the  Spider  story,"  I 
288 


The  Lone  Furrow 


remarked.  "  Here's  tae  you,  MacDonald,  and  your  wee  bit 
persistence." 

"  He  was  an  obstinate  old  Scot,"  the  Memsahib  de- 
clared. 

Jean  looked  at  me,  an  indulgent  smile  on  her  lips,  for 
the  Memsahib  was  not  of  our  Highland  commonalty. 

Just  beyond  the  potato  patch  a  small  broken-backed  log- 
house  stared  vacantly  at  us  through  sashless  windows.  In 
that  shack  the  MacDonald  had  lived  and  had  his  being  when 
he  cleared  the  heavy  forest  from  his  first  acre  of  tillable 
soil. 

Pink-topped  beets  and  huge  postlike  mangels,  their  red 
shoulders  thrust  above  the  soil,  leered  through  a  rail  fence 
at  the  trim  brick  house  of  the  banker  across  the  thorough- 
fare that  was  half  country  road  and  half  village  street. 
From  opposite  the  very  gate  of  the  tall-spired  kirk  a  lane 
dove  into  the  MacDonald  domain,  and  thirty  yards  along 
its  hedged  side  was  a  farm  mansion,  angular,  square,  impos- 
ing in  its  uncompromising  architecture. 

I  could  imagine  the  MacDonald  issuing  from  the  front 
door  each  Sabbath  morning,  a  grim  smile  lighting  up  his 
strong  features  as  he  saw,  up  and  down  the  roadway,  as  far 
as  the  eye  could  stretch  either  way,  the  villagers,  in  their 
Sunday  best,  tramping  to  the  kirk  that  he  could  have 
plumped  a  stone  into  from  his  own  veranda.  Indeed  he 
might  have  milked  his  cows  in  the  barnyard  each  Sabbath 
evening  to  the  music  of  the  organ  had  he  so  wished. 

"There  she  is,  bless  her  heart!"  cried  Molly;  and  to 
the  right  I  saw  the  slender  figure  of  a  woman  proffering 
the  invitation  of  an  open  gate,  in  front  of  a  low-walled  cot- 
tage, the  shingles  of  its  roof  spaced  off  into  tiny  squares, 

289 


The  Lone  Furrow 


like  a  checkerboard,  by  bright  green  moss  that  rooted  in  the 
cracks. 

As  I  swayed  the  carriage  to  the  walk  Beth  came  to  a 
wheel,  and,  reaching  my  hand,  said :  "  And  you  came,  Doc- 
tor— this  is  almost  too  much  happiness  for  one  day." 

There  was  a  touch  of  unconscious  drama  in  the  generous 
thought,  as  though  unstinted  joy  must  bring  an  aftermath 
of  calamity.  I  looked  curiously  at  Beth  as  my  companions 
tumbled  rapturously  into  her  arms.  She  was  small  and 
slender. 

Matthew  was  working  in  the  shop,  Beth  said;  would  I 
drive  there  and  he  would  see  to  the  horses.  I  scanned  Mat- 
thew's face,  and  considered  him  curiously  as  something  that 
affected  Beth's  life — abstractly  interesting. 

Matthew  sighed  when  he  put  on  his  coat,  and,  I  fancied, 
looked  regretfully  at  the  unfinished  carriage  wheel  over 
which  he  had  bent  his  back  in  toil. 

To  the  hostler  of  the  hotel  we  made  ever  the  horses. 
As  we  turned  the  corner  a  great  angular  man  issued  from 
the  bar  and  solemnly  asked,  "  Are  you  no'  weel  the  day, 
Jarvis?" 

"  I'm  fairly  well,"  Matthew  answered  meekly. 

"  I'm  glad  o'  that — I  was  fearin'  when  I  see  you  wi'  your 
coat  on." 

Beth's  husband  explained  nothing,  and  we  took  our  way 
along  the  board  sidewalk  that  was  the  very  outskirts  of  the 
city,  the  rebuking  of  civilization  against  the  grassed  border 
of  the  dour  MacDonald's  holding. 

Two  men  stood  waiting  our  approach,  gazing  with  fixed 
interest  upon  my  companion. 

"What's  up,  Matt?"  one  of  them  asked,  as — the  nar- 
290 


The  Lone  Furrow 


row  walk  blocked  by  their  sturdy  frames — we  were  brought 
to  a  halt. 

"  Nothing,"  Jarvis  answered  quite  simply,  showing  nei- 
ther annoyance  nor  interest  in  the  query. 

"  I'm  glad  o'  that.  Dugald,  here,  wrhen  he  see  it  was 
you  wi'  your  coat  on  jumped  tae  the  conclusion  that  Mis- 
tress Jarvis  wad  be  ailin'  agen,  an'  your  friend  was  a  doch- 
ter  fra  York,  perhaps." 

Now,  thought  I,  Jarvis  must  needs  explain  about  him- 
self and  who  I  am.  But  the  quiet  little  man  had  gentle 
ways  of  reticence. 

"  The  missus  is  doing  finely,  thank  you,"  he  answered ; 
and  on  the  very  edge  of  the  sidewalk,  skirting  the  immov- 
able promontory  of  the  two,  we  swung  on  our  way  again. 

Three  times  before  we  reached  the  little  cottage  Mat- 
thew was  questioned  as  to  why,  in  working  hours,  he  donned 
a  coat  and  idled  on  the  streets.  Indirectly  I  was  becom- 
ing acquainted  with  Beth's  husband. 

"Will  you  come  into  the  parlor?"  Jarvis  invited,  as 
with  modest  courtesy  he  threw  open  a  door  to  the  right, 
and  stepped  back  for  me  to  pass. 

The  room  was  small  and  square,  and  brushed  clean 
to  the  polish  of  a  lacquer  box.  Simple  mottoes  hung  upon 
the  walls  against  a  wondrous  intricacy  of  flower-decorated 
paper;  "  Walk  in  Love,"  "  God  is  My  Shepherd  "—worked 
in  many-colored  worsted.  "  God  Bless  Our  Home  "  looked 
at  me  from  over  a  clock  mantel. 

"Perhaps  you'd  rather  smoke?"  Jarvis  suggested.  "I 
generally  take  my  pipe  to  the  kitchen,"  he  added  hesitatingly. 
"  Beth  is  much  set  against  tobacco  smoke  in  the  curtains;  but 
they  are  busy  now  over  the  dinner,  and  if  you'd  like  a  pipe 

291 


The  Lone  Furrow 


I'll  shut  the  door  and  open  the  window,  and  I  don't  think 
she'll  know.  You'd  not  need  to  mind  anyway,"  he  added, 
"  you'll  be  away." 

There  was  resignation  and,  I'm  sure,  hidden  humor  in 
the  little  man's  speech. 

But  I  didn't  wish  to  smoke,  and  through  the  open  doors 
came  drifting  across  the  narrow  hall  a  clatter  of  china  as 
the  four  women  bustled  from  dining  room  to  kitchen.  I 
heard  Molly's  voice  saying:  "  Never  mind,  Beth,  the  boys 
will  be  just  as  well  in  the  city  as  though  they  were  here 
with  you." 

Beth  in  the  little  kitchen  must  have  expressed  a  fear,  for 
the  Memsahib  said :  "  They  are  such  steady  boys,  Beth ; 
they'll  be  all  right — you'll  see!  " 

A  little  pause,  and  again  the  Memsahib's  voice :  "  So 
lonesome?  I  know;  but  that  will  wear  off — oh,  now,  Beth, 
you  silly  child !  " 

Then  Jean,  her  rich,  soft  voice  in  gentle  chiding:  "You 
poor  dear,  Beth — you  are  just  tired  out.  Come  and  sit  here 
beside  me.  There,  now,  don't  cry!  You  are  lonesome!  It 
is  so  dreary!  Of  course  it  is;  I  know  how — "  Jean's  voice 
stopped  abruptly. 

"  I  guess  I'll  go  and  bring  in  some  wood  for  the  missus," 
Matthew  said,  rising.  "  Here's  the  album  if  you  like  to 
look  at  pictures.  I'll  be  back  in  a  minute." 

Just  once  I  heard  a  little  sob  from  the  dining  room  across 
the  hall,  and  the  slow,  solemn  voice  of  a  man,  and  I  knew 
that  Matthew  had  deceived  me — that  he  was  not  bringing 
in  wood  at  all. 

Presently  he  came  back,  saying:  "  Seeing  the  girls  again 
has  sort  of  upset  the  missus  a  bit.  She's  powerful  down- 

292 


The  Lone  Furrow 


spirited  since  Jimmie  went  away.  The  three  of  them  have 
gone  now;  Jimmie  went  a  month  ago." 

Presently  Beth's  voice  sounded  at  our  very  door :  "  You 
must  be  starved,  you  poor  old  dears!  But  dinner  is  on  the 
table  at  last." 

Beth  slipped  her  hand  through  my  arm,  and  we  marched 
into  the  little  dining  room  that  seemed  to  bulge  with  the 
presence  of  so  many  grown-ups. 

At  the  farther  end  of  the  table  from  Beth,  Matthew 
bowed  his  head  behind  a  little  hillock  of  roast  beef  till  his 
gray  wisps  of  thin,  dry  hair  peeped  from  either  side  of  it 
like  whiskers  on  a  fat-faced  Indian. 

"  Lord  for  all  thy  bountiful  gifts  we  thank  thee,"  Mat- 
thew said  meekly;  and  then  to  the  soft  rustle  of  lifted  nap- 
kins he  piped  a  shrill  accompaniment  on  a  steel  with  a  carv- 
ing knife. 

And  such  a  sauce  there  was  to  the  meat!  the  wonderful 
necromancy  of  Molly's  optimistic  future  for  Beth  and  Mat- 
thew when  the  boys  presently  became  rich,  as  they  surely 
would  in  the  great  city. 

"  It's  pretty  hard  to  make  money  these  times,"  Matthew 
sighed. 

But  Molly  scoffed  at  the  idea.  Herbert  was  sure  to 
get  on ;  he  was  starting  in  the  way — had  the  very  same  billet 
in  the  Canadian  Pacific  Railway  that  the  now  President  of 
that  line  had  had  when  he  was  a  boy. 

Beth  smiled  at  this  optimistic  picture,  and,  nodding  to  me, 
said :  "  You  are  sitting  in  Herbert's  place — that's  where  he 
always  sat,  at  that  corner.  Jimmie  used  to  sit  here  beside 
me.  But  Herbie  writes  that  he's  got  very  long  hours, 
Molly." 

293 


The  Lone  Furrow 


"  Just   the   thing   for  a   boy ;   it   keeps   him   out  of — 
Molly  hesitated  to  even  hint  at  the  temptations  of  the  city — 
"  it  keeps  him  from  getting  lonesome.     I  saw  him  the  other 
day,  and  he's  growing  to  be  such  a  man ;  you  wouldn't  know 
him,  Matthew." 

Beth's  face  softened  to  exquisite  beauty ;  she  reached  over 
and  patted  the  consoler  on  the  arm. 

"The  little  Mother!  eh,  Molly?  you  always  got  that 
name,  didn't  you?  " 

"  I'll  look  after  Herbie,  Beth,"  Molly  comforted;  "  he'll 
soon  get  promotion,  then  he'll  have  shorter  hours." 

"  In  my  time,"  interrupted  Matthew  meekly,  "  we  never 
looked  for  shorter  hours — it  was  a  job  we  were  anxious 
about." 

Though  we  had  started  with  a  plain  roast,  and  our  host- 
ess was  a  desolate  little  mother  deprived  of  her  boys,  before 
we  had  finished  it  was  an  uproarious  banquet;  the  teacups 
clinked  like  goblets  charged  with  rare  wine.  We  two  men 
of  advanced  years  were  rollicking  boys  that  laughed  at  the 
pranks  of  four  school  girls.  Molly,  or  some  one,  had  lighted 
Aladdin's  lamp,  and  we  walked  by  its  light  in  the  future. 
The  boys  were  all  rich;  Matthew  had  sold  his  little  shop; 
they  had  rented  the  cottage — they'd  never  sell  that,  never! 
— and  they  were  all  living  in  the  city.  Matthew  was  in  a 
large  way  of  business,  a  great  carriage  shop.  And  it  was 
wonderful  how  cheaply  they  could  live  in  the  city,  being 
altogether  in  one  family — that  was,  of  course,  before  they 
had  become  so  very  wealthy. 

When  we  had  finished  the  banquet,  carried  to  dizzy 
heights  by  Molly's  fancy,  I  am  sure  Beth  proposed  that  we 
throw  the  dishes  out  of  the  window  instead  of  bothering  to 

wash  them. 

294 


The  Lone  Furrow 


Once  in  the  way  of  apology  Beth  said :  "  It's  dreadful 
to  be  alone  when  one  has  had  lovers  about  one  all  one's 

"Where  do  I  come  in?"  Matthew  interrupted  with  a 
neutral  smile ;  "  I  haven't  run  away  yet." 

Apprehensively  I  looked  at  Jean.  Her  eyes  met  mine, 
and  a  flush  swept  across  her  forehead,  leaving  it  like  a  snow 
mountain  from  which  the  sunlight  has  been  clouded. 

"There!"  cried  the  Memsahib  in  distress;  "I  have 
spilled  my  tea  upon  your  clean  tablecloth,  Beth."  I  knew 
she  had  sacrificed  the  linen  to  the  occasion. 

But  Beth,  with  her  husband's  challenge  in  mind,  oblivi- 
ous of  its  attendant  bearing,  answered:  "I've  got  the  old 
man,  of  course;  but  you  girls  can't  understand  how  dread- 
ful it  is  to  have  your  little  men  go  out  like  birds  from  the 
nest — Molly  here  hasn't  any,  and  you,  Memsahib,  have  all 
yours  with  you  yet;  and — "  Then  she  stopped.  Her  con- 
fusion was  so  great  that  providentially  her  eyes  remained  on 
the  table,  as  though  fascinated  by  the  Memsahib's  little  tea 
lake. 

Psychologically  I  realized  how  sorrow  makes  one  self- 
ishly introspective,  and  also  I  knew  how  remorse  had  seized 
upon  gentle  Beth. 

But  Jean  got  us  out  of  our  difficulty  by  saying:  "  I  sus- 
pect Matthew  is  secretly  pleased  over  it  all;  I  am  sure  he 
has  been  quite  an  outcast  with  those  big  boys  taking  up  all 
the  mother's  love." 

But,  after  all,  the  dishes  were  not  thrown  from  the 
window ;  they  were  soon  gleaming  like  pearls  on  the  shelves 
of  a  cabinet,  a  sample  of  Matthew's  handicraft. 

Jean  and  Beth  were  sitting  in  a  corner,  the  latter's  hand 
295 


The  Lone  Furrow 


on  Jean's  knee.     I  could  see  a  letter  holding  their  attention, 
and  knew  it  was  one  of  Nurse  Eloise's. 

"That  does  read  encouraging,  doesn't  it?"  Beth  was 
saying.  "  I  declare,  in  those  big  hospitals  they'll  take  a 
human  being  nowadays  and  patch  him  up  just  like 
Matthew  does  a  wagon — some  new  spokes  in  a  wheel,  a  bolt 
here  and  a  bolt  there,  paint  it  all  up,  and,  gracious! 
it  looks  just  like  new.  And  even  if  Robert  were  un- 
able to  walk — as  good  as  ever,  I  mean — he'll  still  have 
his  glorious  voice;  and,  as  you  say,  Jean,  now — I  mean 
with  all  the  little  foolishness  passed — you'll  be  so  happy 
together." 

Wondrous  epistle!  Perhaps  Fate,  so  compromised  by 
all  this  optimistic  promise,  might  be  inclined  to  fulfill. 

At  Matthew's  suggestion  we  two  went  for  a  stroll  along 
the  forehead  of  the  lopsided  town. 

I  think  the  pioneer  questioners  of  the  morning  had  leav- 
ened the  whole  village  with  their  curiosity. 

"  I  wonder  what's  happened?  "  my  companion  said,  nod- 
ding toward  many  little  knots  of  people;  "there  seems  a 
great  stir  in  the  village."  And  when  we  had  walked  past 
two  houses,  he  added :  "  Must  have  been  a  team  run  away 
— I  wonder  if  anybody  is  hurt?"  Buried  in  this  thought, 
quite  by  chance,  Matthew  stole  a  march  on  the  first  villager 
who  waylaid  us. 

"What's  up,  Donald?"  he  asked. 

The  man  stared ;  the  same  question  had  been  on  the  tip 
of  his  own  tongue. 

"  Aye,  I  was  just  wondering.  Have  the  boys  come  home 
— have  they  made  rich  already  in  the  city?" 

"What  made  you  think  they  were  back,  man?" 
296 


The  Lone  Furrow 


"  Seein'  you  walkin'  round  in  the  middle  of  the  week 
with  your  hands  in  the  pockets  of  your  Sunday  pants." 

Then  I  noticed,  for  the  first  time,  that  Beth's  husband 
had  changed  his  suit. 

"  I'm  not  much  for  having  them  in  anybody  else's 
pocket,"  Jarvis  answered  dryly.  His  retort  filled  me  with 
passionate  joy;  I  was  coming  to  know  Beth's  husband. 

"  Yon's  a  great  card,  coming  in  the  buggy,"  Matthew 
said  to  me  as  we  walked  on.  "  He's  a  rich  farmer,  old 
John  MacBean.  They're  all  rich  about  here — the  farm- 
ers." The  last  word  was  sighed.  However,  the  rich  Mac- 
Bean  was  also  curious. 

"  Aye,  Jarvis,  she's  a  fine  day.  Had  you  much  insur- 
ance on  the  shop  ?  " 

"  Quite  a  bit." 

"You'll  never  get  it;  the  insurance  companies'll  law 
you  out  of  it.  Is  yon  your  brither?  "  MacBean  was  lean- 
ing over  the  dashboard  in  my  direction,  as  though  he  would 
stretch  his  big  red-haired  paw  and  pull  me  to  the  seat  at 
his  side. 

"You're  a  bit  forward,  MacBean." 

In  astonishment  I  heard  Matthew's  voice,  its  combative 
tones  seemed  as  stiff  as  a  new  garment  on  him.  But  almost 
immediately  he  added:  "It's  my  fault,  MacBean — I'll  in- 
troduce you.  This  is  the  gentleman  that  wrote  the  books 
on  Canada — you  must  have  read  some  of  them — Doctor 
Cameron." 

"  Was  it  in  the  Globe?  "  MacBean  asked,  eyeing  me 
curiously. 

"  No,  I  haven't  the  honor  of  writing  for  the  Globe"  I 
answered  stiffly.     The  Globe  was  a  York  daily  paper. 
20  297 


The  Lone  Furrow 


"  Oh,  you're  on  the  other  side — a  Tory,  eh?  Well,  I've 
no'  read  ony  o'  your  writin's  in  that  case." 

I'm  sure  he  laughed  in  Gaelic  as  he  drove  away;  it  was 
a  harsh,  barbarous  cackle. 

It  was  night  when  we  started  for  home.  The  long 
street  was  like  a  river  that  carried  on  its  left  bank  the  green 
and  red  jewels  of  a  lighted  city,  and  on  its  right  the  shad- 
owy edge  of  silent  moorland.  The  swinging  tavern  sign 
creaked  on  its  iron  hinges,  pushed  fretfully  by  the  autumn 
wind. 

The  jocund  face  in  the  moon  tipped  groggily,  rakishly 
to  one  side,  leered  at  us  as  we  topped  the  last  hill ;  and  for 
a  mile  the  silver  thread  of  the  graveled  road  lay  like  a  pearl 
necklace  on  the  breast  of  earth.  Afar,  on  the  outer  edge 
of  the  world,  twinkled  lights. 

"  Home,"  half  whispered  Jean  at  my  side,  "  how  cheery 
the  lights  look.  I've  had  such  a  lovely  day.  If  one  could 
but  glide  down  this  long  hill,  with  home  waiting  at  the 
foot  of  it,  for  ever  and  ever !  " 

But  presently  we  were  at  the  Hedge.  The  wheels  had 
hardly  ceased  to  crunch  the  roadway  when  a  shaft  of  light 
burst  from  the  door,  and,  pellmell,  tumbled  forth  children 
and  dog  in  vociferous  welcome ;  and  silhouetted  in  the  square 
opening  was  the  sturdy  form  of  Sarah. 

"  A  great  soul  panacea  to-day,"  I  whispered  to  the  Mem- 
sahib,  as  Jean  slipped  up  the  stairway  to  take  off  her  wraps. 

I  got  the  tribute  of  a  kiss  in  answer,  as  though  it  had 
been  all  my  doing — I,  who  had  but  driven  the  horses. 


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CHAPTER   XXI 

IE  now  put  on  the  storm  doors  at  the  Hedge, 
the  actual  pine-wood   barrier  against  "  chill 
November's  surly   blast,"   and   in   fancy   we 
hung    a   mental    shield    against    all    outdoor 
solace — the  lawn,  the  hammock,  the  basking 
in  the  sunlight,  and  the  children's  picnics  at  West  Branch. 
The  farewell  ceremony  to  these  joys  of  summer  had 
been  a  Brahmanical  rite,  a  grand  cremation  of  dead  leaves. 

The  maples  lining  both  sides  of  the  street  had  gone  from 
deep  green  to  crimson,  and  from  crimson  to  burnt  gold, 
and  then,  whispering  in  fear  and  trembling  at  the  harsh  call 
of  the  north  wind,  the  leaves  had  showered  the  earth  in  a 
blizzard  of  great  golden  snowflakes,  scurrying  up  and  down 
the  street  like  frightened  sheep. 

Fronting  the  hand  gate  grew  a  maple  patriarch  that 
always  shed  the  first  drop  of  blood  in  the  autumn  dying; 
that  unfurled  the  earliest  red  banner  of  leaf  nudation,  and 
always  from  the  same  small  limb.  The  children  had  come 
to  look,  perhaps  with  apprehension,  perhaps  with  eagerness, 
for  this  scarlet  letter  that  spelled  "  return  to  school,"  for 
its  appearance  was  coincident  with  the  close  of  the  summer 
holidays. 

299 


The  Lone  Furrow 


When  I  passed  the  word  that  it  was  the  time  of  annual 
bonfires,  the  children  answered  with  yells  of  delight,  and, 
armed  with  rake  and  broom,  gathered  the  rustling  leaves 
into  little  mounds  like  beaver  lodges.  And  soon  the  village 
lay  draped  in  blue  smoke,  and  the  perfume  of  it  brought 
inward  lamentation  for  the  dead  summer.  And  it  was  like 
mimic  warfare,  for  Grandma  Murdoch's  horse-chestnut  trees 
had  showered  to  earth  the  glossy  brown  nuts,  and  these, 
gathered  with  the  leaves,  burst  with  detonations  as  of 
musketry. 

But  at  last  there  were  just  the  blackened  rings  of  ashed 
leaves,  and  against  the  gray  canvas  of  the  autumn  sky  sepia- 
sketched  trees  standing  asleep. 

In  a  crotch  of  one  maple  was  a  deserted  summer  cottage, 
closed  for  the  season — The  Honorable  Robin  Redbreast's 
northern  villa. 

For  years  the  same  couple  of  thrifty  robins  had  homed 
with  us,  and  once  in  a  mood  of  verse  I  had  clutched  at  the 
skirts  of  the  coy,  treacherous  muse — only  to  break  down 
halfway  on  my  journey.  Perhaps  I  had  attempted  too 
much,  or  had  been  overthrown  by  the  incongruity  of  my 
tactics,  for  I  had  harnessed  Mrs.  Redbreast  and  Mrs.  Gillis 
to  the  same  chariot  of  thought.  I  had  started  off  fairly 
bravely  with: 

"  '  As  I  rub  at  my  tub  in  the  shadow  of  the  tree, 
I  listen  to  the  song  that  the  robin  sings  to  me ; 
It  is  sweet,  sweet,  sweet, 
Where  the  sky  and  meadow  meet, 
And  the  daisies  flood  the  valley  like  a  sea. 

300 


The  Lone   Furrow 


"  '  The  robin  with  the  russet  where  'twas  cherry  red  before, 
Has  built  her  nest  for  ages  in  the  tree  above  my  door ; 
It  is  spring,  spring,  spring, 
That's  the  message  that  I  bring, 
And '  " 

Alas!  I  never  could  get  beyond  this — never  find  the 
elusive  line  of  completion.  It  was  like  the  mislaid  fifth 
finger  of  a  hand ;  like  a  blown-up  fort  of  the  Cinque  Ports. 

But  if  the  line  did  not  come  the  robins  did,  not  caring 
a  whit  about  my  muse  so  long  as  the  Memsahib's  garden 
was  like  the  lid  of  a  pepper  box  from  the  boring  of  angle- 
worms. 

Like  the  robins  we  figuratively  took  wing  to  the  south- 
ern warmth  of  indoors;  like  beavers  we  passed  to  the  inner 
lodge;  as  disciples  of  Zoroaster  to  worship  at  the  grate-fire 
shrine,  and  dull  our  ears  to  hoarse  Winter's  knock. 

Life  in  the  village  was  coming  to  a  time  of  lull  in  all 
things.  The  church  was  nearing  completion;  there  were 
few  things  left  in  its  construction  to  wrangle  over. 

One  day  I  carried  home  a  letter  to  Jean,  addressed  in 
the  upstanding  attenuated  characters  I  had  come  to  know 
as  Nurse  Eloise's  peculiarity. 

I  had  barely  turned  on  my  heel  after  the  morning's 
greeting,  when  Jean,  who  always  opened  the  Nurse's  let- 
ters with  feverish  haste,  called  to  me  to  come  quickly. 

Startled,  knowing  that  it  was  something  of  the  letter, 
yet  I  noted  with  acute  consciousness  that  it  was  not  a  cry 
of  despair;  her  voice  rang  with  the  joyous  clang  of  hope. 

Jean's  big  black  eyes  blazed  in  a  glorious  illumination. 
She  thrust  the  letter  into  my  hand,  crying:  "Read  that, 

301 


The  Lone  Furrow 


Doctor.  My  God!  I  can  hardly  trust  my  own  eyes. 
Read  it,  and  tell  me  that  I  am  not  the  victim  of  some 
strange  fancy !  " 

Read  the  letter?  Heavens!  I  could  only  filter  its 
Gallic  promiscuously  through  the  rigid  mesh  of  an  Anglo- 
Celtic  sieve.  It  had  been  dictated  by  Robert  and  written 
by  Mam'selle  Eloise;  the  dogmatic  assertions  of  a  Celt 
treated,  modified,  distorted  by  the  vivacious  fancy  of  a 
parenthetically  inclined  Frenchwoman. 

Three  readings  of  the  epistle  developed  two  distinct  con- 
victions. Robert  had  seen  Neil  Munro  standing  beside  his 
cot  for  a  second  one  night — that  was  Robert's  belief. 

Nurse  Eloise  intimated  that  this  was  possibly  a  hallu- 
cination, offering  as  conclusive  evidence  for  this  conviction 
the  fact  that  she  had  not  seen  this  strange  M'sieu — this  was 
Nurse's  contradictory  opinion. 

Robert  had  dictated :  "  I  spoke  to  Neil,  but  he  did  not 
answer;  I  think  he  did  not  hear  me — but  it  was  Neil." 

Jean  sat  quietly,  her  hands  crossed  in  quaint  childlike 
fashion  in  her  lap,  while  I  slowly  perused  the  letter. 

"  What  do  you  make  of  that?  "  she  asked  when  my  eyes 
turned  from  the  letter  to  the  grate  fire  in  contemplative 
thought. 

"  In  this  appendix,  which  Mam'selle  has  considerately 
written  upon  a  separate  sheet,  not  troubling  Robert  for  his 
signature,  she  infers  that  Robert  is  just  possessed  of  a  fancy. 
People  who  are  ill  and  confined  that  way  to  bed,  having  so 
much  time  for  introspection,  do  take  their  imaginings  very 
seriously." 

"  This  is  not  an  hallucination,  though,"  Jean  said  de- 
cisively. "  Robert  has  seen  Neil.  My  brother  had  the  least 

302 


The  Lone   Furrow 


imagination  of  any  person  I  ever  knew.  That  was  a  great 
drawback  in  fighting  his  weakness.  I  have  tried  to  picture 
to  him  the  awful  consequences,  tried  to  paint  the  living  hell 
it  would  bring  to  him,  but  it  was  always  as  though  I  spoke 
a  strange  language,  not  one  word  of  it  seemed  to  sink  into 
his  consciousness  or  understanding." 

"  He  may  have  seen  some  one — some  other  person,"  I 
contended. 

"  No  one  who  had  ever  seen  Neil  could  have  mistaken 
another  person  for  him." 

I  thought  how  true  this  was.  Before  my  eyes  flashed  a 
mental  picture  of  Munro's  extraordinary  head.  Strangely 
enough,  it  was  a  Mephistophelean  head — strong  raven-black 
hair  luxuriantly  topped  a  tapering  face  of  ivory  paleness; 
intense,  piercing  black  eyes,  rather  small,  almost  glittering, 
seemed  to  stab  from  under  black  brows  delicately  penciled 
in  almost  straight  lines ;  the  mustache  was  equally  coal  black. 
It  was  a  nervous,  sensitive  face,  carrying  always  an  atmos- 
phere of  combat  with  pain,  either  mental  or  physical,  per- 
haps both.  I  was  forced  to  admit  that  it  was  incomprehen- 
sible that  Robert  should  be  mistaken  in  Neil,  but  I  said: 
"  Nurse  here  speaks  of  some  man  who  occasionally  visits  the 
hospital,  a  M'sieu  Mordaunt.  She  thinks  that  Robert  has 
seen  him,  for  he  answers  somewhat  the  description  the  boy 
gave  her  of  the  man  he  saw  at  his  cot-side." 

"  Yes,  that  is  Neil,"  Jean  answered  quietly. 

"Impossible!"  I  ejaculated.  "If  it  were  Neil,  why 
didn't  he  stop  when  Robert  called  to  him?  " 

My  question  threw  Jean  into  a  momentary  confusion; 
her  calm  logical  attitude  changed  to  one  of  trepidation.  The 
sudden  look  of  pain  in  her  eyes  reawakened  in  me  the  sus- 

303 


The  Lone  Furrow 


picion — almost  confirmed  it  to  a  certainty — that  there  was 
an  extraordinary  something  about  Neil's  going  away  that 
both  she  and  Robert  had  knowledge  of,  and  of  which  we 
knew  nothing. 

Recovering  herself,  she  answered  presently :  "  Neil  may 
not  have  recognized  Robert — he  is  so  changed  by  his  illness. 
He  would  be  dressed  differently,  and  lying  on  a  cot.  Neil 
would  not  expect  to  see  him  there;  the  hospital  light  would 
be  dim." 

"  But  Robert  says  the  man  he  saw  stood  by  his  cot  for 
a  second." 

"  Yes,  in  passing,  Neil  may  have  caught  a  flitting  sem- 
blance in  some  feature  that  just  appealed  momentarily  to 
his  memory;  then,  in  an  instant,  as  impressions  wing  their 
rapid  way  across  our  minds,  it  was  gone,  and  he  passed  on, 
not  hearing  my  brother's  voice — it  would  be  weak.  Per- 
haps astonished,  Robert  did  not  at  first  open  his  lips." 

"  But  Robert  writes  as  though  this  man  must  have  heard 
him — that's  what  I  gather  from  his  letter." 

"  Well,  if  it  had  been,  as  you  think,  a  stranger,  one 
Mordaunt,  and  he  had  heard  Robert's  call,  he  would  have 
gone  back.  It  was  Neil." 

"  Well,"  I  said,  at  the  end  of  a  painful  silence,  "  there 
is  but  one  way  to  solve  this  new  mystery." 

"  Yes,  just  one  way,"  Jean  confirmed.  "  But  who  is  to 
undertake  it — I  can't  disarrange  the  lives  of  my  friends?  " 

"  Nonsense,  Jean !  "  I  answered.  "  I'll  go  to  Montreal 
and  find  this  Mr.  Mordaunt — or  disabuse  Robert's  mind  of 
his  fancy — or  find  Neil,  if  he's  there." 

"  He  is.  He  is  there.  And  I  can't  express  my  thanks 
to  you." 

304 


The  Lone  Furrow 


"  Again,  nonsense,  Jean.  I  was  itching  to  run  down 
and  have  a  look  at  Robert  anyway — it  will  cheer  him  up, 
if  nothing  else  comes  of  it.  You  mustn't  build  too  much 
upon  my  bringing  Neil  home  with  me.  Don't  let  so  slight 
a  chance  give  you  a  hope  that  would  cause  you  misery  if  it 
were  proven  false." 

"  It  isn't  a  false  hope,"  Jean  answered,  with  utter  con- 
viction. "  Robert  has  seen  Neil,  and  you  will  bring  him 
back,  Doctor;  you'll  just  shut  your  eyes,  and  your  ears,  and 
your  heart,  and  your  lips — you'll  just  close  your  very  soul, 
and  bring  Neil  back  to  me !  " 

"  I  will,  Jean,"  I  said  earnestly,  wondering  at  her 
vehemence. 

But,  after  all,  why  should  I  wonder  at  anything?  Was 
it  not  all  some  terrible,  inexplicable  mystery,  so  shrouded  in 
suggestive  mysticism  that  I  had  almost  entertained  a  dread- 
ful, a  horrible  suspicion  that  Neil  might  have  been  mur- 
dered in  the  Manse,  slain — my  God! — in  a  fit  of  ungovern- 
able passion  by  Robert.  And  even  now,  at  once  there  was 
an  evil  recoil  from  half-infected  optimism;  perhaps  the  boy, 
through  long  brooding,  was  haunted  by  a  visual  reincarna- 
tion of  Neil  dead. 

"  I  will  go  Monday  morning,"  I  said,  speaking  to  hush 
with  my  voice  the  flutter  of  these  evil  bat  wings  of  thought. 

Bain  called  in  the  afternoon,  and  now,  uninfluenced  by 
Jean's  conviction,  I  was  entirely  on  the  side  of  Nurse  Eloise, 
claiming  that  the  mission  to  Montreal  was  predestined  to 
failure,  though  necessary  to  lay  by  the  heels  this  stalking 
ghost.  Malcolm  was  not  so  sure  that  I  was  right. 

"  Do  you  remember,"  he  asked,  "  how  Mrs.  Cameron 
bowled  over  the  Major's  materialistic  argument,  that  if  you 

305 


The  Lone  Furrow 


couldn't  see  through  a  stone  wall,  ergo  there  was  nothing 
on  the  other  side  of  it?" 

"  You  mean  the  telepathic  connection  between  Twinnies' 
minds?" 

"  It's  greater  than  our  accepted  idea  of  telepathy,"  Mal- 
colm contended,  "  for  that  radiates  from  minds  in  active 
whirl,  their  owners  awake  and  thinking  with  tremendous 
intensity;  but  whatever  it  is  that  governs  the  little  ones  in 
their  sleep,  it  is  far  more  subtle,  for  they  are  not,  as  it  were, 
active  agents,  either  of  them;  they  are  almost  in  an  illimit- 
able Nirvana." 

"  You  are  deeper  in  this  even  than  I,  Bain — but  how 
does  that  effect  this  question  of  Neil  ?  " 

"  Just  this  way.  I  have  noticed  that  women — perhaps 
they  must  be  of  extreme  sensibility,  of  impressionable  fiber — 
have  a  subtle  sense  that  there  is  no  describing,  no  naming 
— it  is  so  beyond  comprehension  in  its  illusive  subtlety  that 
one  thinks  of  it  as  one  thinks  of  eternity.  And  I  should 
say  that  Jean  Munro,  with  her  highly  developed  mentality, 
has  this  receptivity,  and  comes  by  infallible  truths  in  the 
most  inexplicable  manner.  As  you  say,  she  has  the  most 
complete  faith  in  Robert's  story  that  he  saw  Neil  Munro. 
Her  simple  sincerity  even  affected  you  who  had  the  circum- 
stantial evidence  on  your  side  as  against  this  belief." 

"You  think,  then,  that  I  shall  find  Minister  in  Mon- 
treal?" 

"  I  think  we  shall." 

"'We' — are  you  going,  too,  Malcolm?" 

Bain  nodded  quite  simply. 

"  I'm  glad  of  that,  it  will  make  our  search  doubly  thor- 
ough; it's  very  good  of  you." 

306 


The  Lone  Furrow 


"  Not  at  all — not  at  all,  man ;  I'm  glad  to  get  away 
for  a  bit.  MacKay  and  his  varnish,  and  the  others  of  across 
the  way  with  their  bickerings,  are  a  touch  tiresome.  I'm 
wanting  a  little  change;  and  if  we  happen  upon  Munro  he 
might  listen  to  me — we  were  great  friends." 

"  You  think,  Bain,  that  for  some  reason  he  might  not 
want  to  come  back  ?  " 

"Well,  he  has  stayed  away,  hasn't  he?  But  I'll  tell 
you  the  truth,  Doctor — what  I'm  thinking — that  his  reasons 
are  all  in  his  mind."  Bain  tapped  a  forefinger  on  his  fore- 
head suggestively.  "  Munro  had  a  temperament  too  finely 
strung  to  stand  the  strain  of  intense  unavailing  effort,  and  I 
suspect  the  chords  just  went  loose  with  a  snap — overkeyed 
they  were.  I'll  be  with  you  Monday  anyway.  In  the  mean 
time,  here's  the  errand  that  brought  me.  Doctor  MacLean 
is  preaching  to-morrow,  and  he's  coming  out  this  evening. 
I  wanted  to  know  if  you  could  roof  him — I  think  he'd  be 
quite  happy  here  with  the  other  children,  if  you  wouldn't 
mind." 

It  was  the  softest  kind  of  sunshine,  labeled  Doctor  Mac- 
Lean,  that  bustled  in  through  the  front  door  a  second  after 
the  bus  wheels  had  ceased  their  rumble  at  our  gate  that 
evening. 

"  A  large  package  of  panacea  for  the  patient,"  I  whis- 
pered to  the  Memsahib,  as  Doctor  MacLean  took  Jean  by 
the  hand,  clinging  to  the  tapering  fingers  to  give  them  a 
little  occasional  shake  as  he  rattled  on:  "  My,  my!  dear  me! 
how  well  you're  looking!  You're  just  your  mother  over 
again.  I've  been  so  eager  to  see  you  all  again.  I've  been 
wondering  how  that  robin — or  was  it  a  sparrow — that  we 
fed,  got  on." 


The  Lone  Furrow 


Then  later,  when  the  early  winter  night  had  chilled  and 
gloomed  the  village,  we  gathered  about  the  ruddy  grate — 
the  old  boy  and  the  other  children,  nine  of  us.  Ticked  off 
by  numerals — first,  the  veritable  juvenile,  Doctor  MacLean, 
so  full  of  quaint  humor;  then  the  five  minors  in  the  cog- 
nizance of  the  law,  the  children;  seventh  and  eighth,  the 
Memsahib  and  myself,  youthed  to  childishness  by  the  leaven- 
ing influence  of  all  these  little  ones;  and  ninth,  Jean, 
strangely  full  of  suppressed  excitement  over  the  new  hope. 

Not  for  such  a  group  theology  or  literature,  which 
would  assuredly  run  into  egoism,  but  the  discussing  of  some 
act  of  prowess  by  one  of  us  elders. 

In  the  black-sooted  walls  of  the  fireplace  a  hundred  tiny 
eyes  of  fire  blink  at  us;  they  are  like  meteoric  stars  in  a 
night  sky.  I  know  a  storm  is  brewing  for  the  atmospheric 
pressure  has  caused  the  soot  to  cling. 

The  children  gather  closer  to  the  hearth,  their  faces 
bathed  in  the  rose-light  of  the  fire.  A  mimic  battle  of  im- 
agination soldiers  is  on.  Boers  creep  from  their  hiding 
places  in  the  crevices  of  the  bricks  and  blaze  away  at  lines 
of  British  entrenchments.  We  see  the  flash  of  the  guns, 
running  from  end  to  end  of  the  trenches;  little  bright  dots 
of  evanescent  fire,  quick  dying  in  the  background  of  the  black 
soot.  The  enemy  are  driven  back  and  retreat  up  the  chim- 
ney, their  formation  broken;  sullenly  they  give  way,  firing 
spasmodically.  Presently  all  is  dark — not  a  rifle  spits  its 
venom  of  red. 

"  The  battle  is  over,"  I  say. 

"  Look  I  here  they  come  again !  "  shouts  Doo-doo. 

Once  more  the  battlefield  is  lighted  up  by  the  rolling 
fire  of  musketry.  And  now  the  artillery!  Shells  hurtle 

308 


The  Lone  Furrow 


through  the  air;  hand  grenades  are  thrown.  These  are 
little  blurs  of  soot  that  drop  blazing  into  the  grate. 

All  down  the  length  of  a  long  brick  the  attacking  force 
drives  the  men  from  their  trenches — to  the  very  edge  of  the 
Barren  Lands — alkali  plains,  which  are  gray  bricks  within 
the  grate-fire  zone,  guiltless  of  soot. 

The  children  hold  their  breath  as  the  struggle  waxes 
fierce.  Of  course  they  are  all  on  the  side  of  the  British ;  even 
Doctor  MacLean,  man  of  peace,  becomes  a  partisan  of  war. 

"  I'm  afraid  we've  lost  the  battle,"  he  says ;  "  they've 
conquered  us  this  time." 

Even  as  he  spreads  this  evil  news  there  is  a  most  furious 
onslaught  by  fresh  troops  upon  the  Boer  flank,  their  left 
wing. 

"  Hurrah!  "  I  cry;  "  that's  the  Canadian  brigade  to  the 
rescue!" 

It  is  a  thrilling  battle-cry  that  I  have  sent  forth;  the 
children  spring  to  their  feet  in  eagerness.  There  are  yells  of 
encouragement  to  the  Canadians;  alas!  there  are  no  en- 
couraging cheers  for  the  Boers,  we  are  patriotically  partisan. 

Again  the  British  soldiers  issue  from  their  trenches,  and, 
attacked  front  and  rear,  the  Boers  give  way;  the  line  of 
battle  wavers  unsteadily  back  and  forth,  always  up  the  chim- 
ney now.  The  slaughter  must  be  terrific. 

Fresh  Boers  pour  out  from  redoubts  and  swarm  down 
the  steep  escalade  of  a  hill  in  rescue  of  their  comrades.  The 
gun-flashes  of  the  contending  forces  mingle  as  they  fight 
hand  to  hand. 

It  grows  so  real  that  Doo-doo  shudders;  tears  come  to 
her  eyes  when  the  hill  becomes  silent  in  darkness,  and  I  say: 
"  The  soldiers  are  all  dead." 

309 


The  Lone  Furrow 


A  solemn  hush  follows,  and  I  hear  the  labored  breath 
of  a  storm  that  rushes  through  the  village  as  though  cavalry 
galloped  to  a  battlefield.  There  is  a  swirl  of  snow  brushed 
against  our  windowpane  by  the  gale-sweeping  broom;  it 
sounds  like  the  twisting  of  a  shroud. 

I  think  Memsahib  detects  the  tears  in  Doo-doo's  eyes, 
for  she  says:  "  I  see  a  castle  in  the  fire,  Kippie,  and  a  great 
blue  flower  growing  out  of  its  turret." 

Immediately  our  interest  returns  to  the  grate,  where  huge 
ships  go  sailing  over  lakes  of  fire.  There  is  a  black  giant 
who  eats  up  little  children.  Santa  Claus  is  discovered  by 
one  of  the  Twins,  carrying  a  huge  pack ;  in  the  pack  is  some- 
thing for  everyone. 

For  Doctor  MacLean  it  is  a  horse. 

"  Dear  me!  "  cries  the  Doctor  deprecatingly ;  "  to  be  sure 
— the  very  thing  for  an  itinerant  preacher.  But  I  haven't 
been  on  a  horse  since  I  was  in  the  Holy  Land  two  years  ago, 
and  he  was  a  little  donkey." 

Sly  wag,  the  Doctor ;  I  expect  he  also  knew  of  Doo-doo's 
tears. 

"  And  the  donkey's  name  was  Judas,  children,"  he  con- 
tinued. "  Dear  me !  yes ;  and  well  named,  too,  for  he 
dumped  me  in  a  pool  of  mud;  less  cleansing  than  the  Pool 
of  Siloam,  though." 

"  Sana  Tlaus  has  a  sleigh  in  his  pact  for  Laddie,"  Kip- 
pie  says. 

"  Oh,  bully !  "  cries  the  boy ;  "  and  it's  snowing  outside. 
We'll  have  coasting  down  Willow  Bank  hill  to-morro\v." 

Kippie's  discovery  of  the  mythical  sleigh  has  given  us 
youth's  viewpoint  of  the  harsh  storm. 

But  it  is  now  bedtime  for  the  children.  And  when  they 
310 


The  Lone  Furrow 


have  gone,  swirling  up  the  stairs  like  a  chattering  flock  of 
parrakeets,  we  become  elders  again,  aged  to  silent  retrospect. 

As  we  sit  in  reverie,  each  one  busy  writing  on  the  tablets 
of  his  mind,  suddenly  Doctor  MacLean's  voice,  sonorous  and 
strong,  quite  unlike  the  thin  fiber  of  its  conversational  qual- 
ity, breaks  the  stillness  with: 

"  God  is  in  his  temple.  Let  us  all  keep  silence — pros- 
trate bow  with " 

The  poor  old  Doctor's  voice  dies  away  in  a  squeak  of 
horror;  involuntarily  and  with  great  ill-breeding  we  turn 
our  eyes  upon  his  troubled  face.  He  is  speechless  for  a  sec- 
ond, then  he  says:  "Dear  me!  you  must  please  excuse  me. 
I  fell  to  thinking  of  my  sermon  for  to-morrow,  and  I'm 
afraid — in  fact,  I  did  speak  out.  I'm  very  sorry;  dear  me — 
dear  me\  " 

The  sweet  old  gentleman  is  showered  with  forgiveness — 
there  is  nothing  to  forgive.  His  simpleness  is  lovable. 

But  now  the  grate  fire,  ashed  to  a  sullen  redness,  writes 
lethargy  in  shadow-letters  upon  the  hearth,  and  I  say:  "  Doc- 
tor, whenever  you  are  ready  to  retire — there's  a  light  in  your 
room." 

"Dear  me!  yes,  yes!  I  will  go  now.  When  one  talks 
in  his  sleep  it  is  time  to  go  to  bed.  So  delightful  this  even- 
ing. Dear  me — yes,  yes !  It  would  be  a  desolate  world  with 
no  little  children  in  it,  wouldn't  it?  " 

There  is  a  twinge  of  regret  in  his  voice,  perhaps,  for  he 
is  a  bachelor. 

Jean  follows  presently,  saying,  as  she  leaves  us :  "I  think 
this  is  the  sweetest  evening  of  my  life.  I  know  something 
good  is  going  to  happen ;  I  feel  a  strange  peace  creeping  into 
my  heart." 


CHAPTER   XXII 

|ONDAY  night  Malcolm  and  I  took  the  train 
from  New  York  to  Montreal.  The  next 
morning  I  stepped  into  an  atmosphere  of  un- 
utterable depression;  the  huge  station,  with 
its  myriad  of  hurrying  humans,  shrank  me  to 
conscious  minuteness;  I  was  an  ant — a  seed  from  a  cotton 
plant,  tossed  this  way  and  that  on  the  busy  winds  of  life. 
Dread  obtruded  its  grim  dragon's  head,  and  I  felt  strangely 
incompetent.  On  the  street  the  giant  gray-stone  wall  of  the 
terminal,  rising  like  a  cliff,  dwarfed  me  to  a  pigmy.  To 
the  right,  St.  Peter's  Cathedral,  holding  through  the  cen- 
turies its  row  of  giant  apostles,  enhanced  this  feeling  of  lit- 
tleness, of  insufficiency.  Somehow  I  measured  my  capacity 
for  the  task  in  hand  by  the  great  dome  that  blurred,  round 
and  gray,  against  a  blue  winter's  sky — emblematic  of  the 
immense  city  we  were  to  search. 

I  looked  curiously  at  Malcolm,  but  he  marched  bravely 
at  my  side,  his  physical  force  superior  to  the  influences  that, 
like  a  chilling  wind,  crept  to  my  marrow.  As  if  my  thoughts 
had  thrown  him  into  a  materialistic  mood,  the  very  antith- 
esis of  mine,  he  said:  "Man,  but  I'm  hungry,  Doctor! 

312 


The  Lone  Furrow 


We'll  go  to  a  hotel,  have  a  proper  workman's  breakfast,  and 
then  roll  up  our  sleeves." 

"  Ah,  my  leviathan  of  optimism !  "  I  exclaimed ;  "  it's 
just  such  a  matter  as  putting  down  a  carpet — something  to 
be  done,  eh?  " 

"  Just  that.  We'll  see  Robert — the  poor  lad ! — get  from 
him  what  he  knows " 

"  You  think  you'll  get  that  now,  Bain — you  think  Rob- 
ert will  tell  what  he  knows  now?  " 

"  I  don't.  Whatever  he  kept  to  himself  was  because  of 
some  promise  to  his  sister." 

I  started  at  Bain's  words — I  had  never  thought  of  this. 

"  How  do  you  know  that?  "  I  asked. 

"  By  the  most  reliable  way  in  the  world — observation 
and  a  long  season  of  reasoning.  Robert  was  against  Neil — 
he'd  keep  nothing  back  on  that  head.  But  it  doesn't  matter, 
I  wasn't  thinking  of  that ;  I  mean  we'll  find  out  what  there 
is  to  be  found  out  about  Neil's  appearance  in  the  hospital." 

"  You  are  confident  Neil  was  there?  " 

"  Quite  confident." 

"Why?" 

"  For  the  same  reason  that  when  I  have  a  headache  I 
know  I  have  a  headache — I  feel  it." 

"  You  are  like  Jean." 

"  Nobody  is  like  Jean — "  This  seemed  to  slip  from 
Malcolm  involuntarily,  and  he  added  hastily :  "  Here  we 
are  at  the  place  of  breakfast." 

In  an  hour  we  were  toiling  up  the  long  snow-glazed 
street  that  led  to  Victoria  Hospital.  By  chance  we  had  come 
on  a  day  that  visitors  were  admitted.  We  entered  a  long 
ward,  w'indowed  from  both  sides,  its  pink  walls  mirroring  a 

21  313 


The  Lone  Furrow 


rose  light,  soft  and  grateful,  over  a  double  row  of  iron  cots 
that  held,  in  snowy  sheets,  afflicted  humans. 

At  a  little  desk  just  within  the  door  sat  the  head  nurse 
of  this  ward. 

"To  see  Mr.  Craig?  Ah,  yes;  'the  sweet  singer/  we 
call  him.  You  have  come  from  his  home?" 

And  Robert?  Ah!  I'm  sure  tears  of  sympathy  and  joy 
mingled  close  to  my  eyes  as  I  looked  upon  his  face. 

A  queer  simile  came  to  me,  that  it  was  as  though  I 
looked  upon  dross  gold  that  had  been  passed  through  fire; 
something  had  gone  in  the  burning,  something  of  rude 
strength,  of  coarse  fiber;  but  the  eyes  were  clear  and  tem- 
pered like  blue-gray  steel.  And  if  in  the  face  was  resigna- 
tion, it  was  a  resigning  to  joy,  to  happiness. 

"  Ah !  "   he  cried,   breaking  the  silence   in  which   Bain 
and  I  each  held  a  hand,  "  this  is  a  touch  of  Heaven  to  see 
the  old  faces ;  not  but  that  there  are  sweet  faces  here  "- 
and  he  smiled  like  a  boy  at  Nurse  Eloise — "  and  kind  hearts, 
too." 

"You  are  getting  better,  Robert?"  I  asked. 

"  I'm  half  well,"  he  answered.  "  Above  the  kink  in  my 
spine,  I'm  a  fraud  to  be  lying  here;  below  that,  I  might  as 
well  be  buried." 

The  lad  was  all  impatience  over  the  matter  of  Neil,  and 
he  soon  launched  into  this. 

"  You  see,"  he  began,  "  one  night  last  week  a  poor  chap 
was  brought  into  the  ward — O  God!  I'll  never  forget  it, 
never,  if  I  lived  a  thousand  years;  it  was  dreadful!  And 
to  think  that  I  might  have  been  like  that — when  I  remem- 
ber it  my  affliction  seems  like  a  blessing." 

"What  was  it,  Robert?"  I  asked. 


The  Lone  Furrow 


"  Drink!  The  man  was  a  raving  maniac;  he  died  like 
that — he  was  dead  in  the  morning.  I  think  Neil  came  with 
that  poor  fellow." 

"  But  somebody  would  have  known,"  I  argued. 

"  Not  of  Munro.  But  a  Mr.  Mordaunt  was  seen,  and 
he  is  Neil.  You  will  find  that  Neil  is  here  in  the  city  work- 
ing among  the  outcasts — you  will  find  him  in  the  slums." 

"  But,  Robert,  why  should  Munro  leave  his  congregation 
to  labor  among  strangers — why  should  he  leave  his  wife  and 
home?  It  seems  impossible!" 

"  It  may  seem  so,  but  it  isn't,"  Robert  answered  de- 
cisively; and  his  eyes,  looking  straight  into  mine,  talked  on 
in  unvoiced  words,  telling  me  that  behind  them  was  knowl- 
edge that  I  had  not. 

"  I  think  it  is  reasonable,"  Malcolm  said,  "  to  suppose 
that  if  Neil  is  in  Montreal,  it's  in  these  low  places  we'll 
find  him.  It  was  that  spirit  of  trying  to  save  the  lowest 
grade  that  took  him  to  India;  and  as  to  his  being  here,  away 
from  home,  it's  just  a  case  of  lost  memory.  That  is  not  so 
very  uncommon." 

"  Well,  the  question  is,  Bain,  where  shall  we  look  first?  " 

"Go  to  the  Old  Brewery  Mission,"  Robert  directed; 
"  I've  been  asking  a  few  questions  from  an  old  wreck  of 
humanity  that  was  here  in  the  ward.  The  superintendent 
of  the  Mission,  Mr.  Tyler,  is  the  man  to  help  you." 

"  We'll  find  Neil,"  Bain  said  as  we  parted  from  the 
boy ;  "  and  we'll  take  you  both  home  together,  I  think." 

A  smile  flitted  over  the  lad's  face.  "  My  heart's  been 
thirsting  for  a  sight  of  the  village  and  Jean.  They're  kind 
here,  but — '  there's  no  place  like  home.'  I'll  not  be  able  to 
run  about  again — I'd  make  a  poor  goal  keeper  now,  I  think. 

315 


The  Lone  Furrow 


But  if  I  could  just  sit  there  under  the  maples  when  the 
spring  comes,  and  hear  the  robins  calling  '  Cheery — cheery — 
cheery!'  it  would  be  just  like  being  in  Heaven.  I'll  get 
more  joy  out  of  life  now,  even  with  these  unwilling  limbs  of 
mine,  than  I  got  before  when  I  was  strong.  I  never  used 
to  hear  the  robins  nor  see  them;  the  flowers  might  as  well 
have  bloomed  in  Greenland — I  was  blind  to  their  beauty. 
The  simple  things  that  I  remember  now  and  thirst  for,  as 
a  man  craves  for  water  when  he  is  dying  of  thirst,  were  to 
me  nothing  then,  for  the  drink  had  dulled  my  mind  so  that 
I  craved  for  nothing  but  it  and  excitement." 

Bain  put  his  hand  on  Robert's  forehead,  saying  affection- 
ately: "You're  in  a  good  way  now,  Bob." 

It  was  the  first  time  I  had  ever  heard  Malcolm  use  the 
abbreviation. 

"  Yes,  poor  old  MacKillop  did  me  a  good  turn  I 
wouldn't  take  back." 

"  You  feel  quite  safe,  Robert — you  feel  strong  over  the 
matter?"  Bain  asked. 

"  Quite  safe,  Malcolm.    And  I'm  quite  happy  about  it." 

"  Well,  I'm  going  to  see  the  doctor,  and  if  he  thinks 
you'll  get  on  as  well  at  home  now,  we'll  take  you  as  soon 
as  we've  found  Neil." 

At  the  office  we  learned  that  the  Brewery  Mission  was 
in  Craig  Street. 

As  we  journeyed  there  Malcolm  was  in  a  communica- 
tive mood. 

"  What's  your  own  idea  of  all  this,  Cameron  ? "  he 
asked.  "  Do  you  see  the  hand  of  the  Lord  in  it?  I'm  ask- 
ing you  because  you're  somewhat  on  the  fence — not  as  re- 
gards your  own  actions,  I  mean,  but  analytically.  If  I  had 

316 


The  Lone  Furrow 


put  that  question  to  anyone  of  the  church  people  at  home, 
he'd  at  once  have  answered,  '  Yes,  it's  the  Lord's  hand  ' ; 
and  he'd  leave  it  at  that,  frowning  upon  any  discussion  pro 
and  con" 

"  I  can't  say,"  I  answered.  "  Robert's  misfortune  seems 
so  terrible — a  cripple  for  life !  " 

"  And  yet  if  you'd  ask  him  the  same  question  he'd  have 
no  doubt  at  all.  He's  just  thanking  the  Lord  for  his  deliv- 
erance, and  he's  the  real  sufferer  at  that." 

"  I  see;  in  a  worldy  way  of  speaking,  if  he's  satisfied  we 
ought  to  be." 

"  Just  that.  There's  too  much  questioning  of  the  Al- 
mighty on  other  people's  account;  we're  prone  to  advise 
them  that  He  is  not  treating  them  right." 

'  This  is  the  number — this  is  the  Mission,"  I  exclaimed, 
facing,  as  we  stopped,  a  large  window  in  which  hung  a  curi- 
ous clock,  on  its  dial  the  letters  of  the  words  "  Time  "  and 
"  Eternity  "  taking  the  place  of  the  numerals — "  time  "  in 
red  letters  and  "  eternity  "  in  black. 

On  the  door,  large  written,  was  the  word  "  Welcome." 

The  main  entrance  was  locked,  but  a  smaller  door  at 
the  side  yielded  to  my  hand,  and  we  passed  up  a  stairway  to 
a  room  in  which  half  a  hundred  poorly  clad  men  sat  at 
small  tables  or  sauntered  aimlessly  about.  A  broad-shoul- 
dered, sturdy,  strong- faced  man  came  forward  to  meet  us. 
His  stern  features  relaxed  into  a  gentle  look  of  compliance 
when  I  told  him  we  were  in  trouble  and  needed  his  assist- 
ance. 

"  I  am  here  to  help  people,"  he  said  quite  simply,  and 
led  the  way  downstairs  to  his  office. 

Going,  I  carried  with  me  a  composite  picture  of  all  the 

317 


The  Lone  Furrow 


faces  in  that  room  of  temporary  refuge.  As  members  of  a 
household  living  together  grow  to  look  alike,  so  these  hun- 
ger-brothers of  the  tribe  of  Poverty,  their  features  stippled 
in  the  gray  apathetic  despair,  were  subdued  to  a  com- 
monalty of  kinship.  The  red  glow  of  hope  was  absent  from 
the  drawn  cheeks;  no  jewel  of  desire  for  achievement  spar- 
kled in  the  dull  eyes ;  the  springs  of  their  physical  mechanism 
were  slackened — they  were  run-down  clocks,  listlessly  quiet. 

"  Now,  gentlemen,"  said  the  Superintendent,  indicating 
chairs  as  we  entered  his  office,  "  I  am  Mr.  Tyler,  at  your 
service — what  can  I  do  for  you?  " 

Malcolm  explained  our  errand,  and  when  he  had  fin- 
ished I  added :  "  I  am  afraid  you  will  think  it  rather  extraor- 
dinary for  us  to  come  looking  for  a  man  who  is  a  minister 
of  the  Gospel  among  those  who  come  into  your  hands." 

Tyler  opened  a  drawer  of  his  desk,  and  lifting  out  a 
large  package  of  photographs,  selected  one,  and  passed  it 
to  me,  saying:  "That  man  was  the  pastor  of  a  large  city 
church — he  was  an  eloquent,  cultured,  magnetic  gentleman." 

The  photograph  I  held  was  that  of  a  human  wreck. 

"I  knew  him  well,"  Tyler  continued;  "it  was  drink 
that  brought  him  down — I  might  almost  add  that  it  is  always 
drink.  If  the  Devil  were  bound,  chained  like  Prometheus 
to  a  rock,  and  the  bottle  still  held  its  sway,  God  and  His 
Word  would  yet  have  the  same  hard  battle  to  save  human- 
ity from  itself.  Isn't  it  sad  to  know  that  a  soulless,  devilish, 
inanimate  engine  of  destruction  like  alcohol  is  almost  as 
powerful  as  He  who  created  worlds,  and  made  man,  and 
gave  him  a  soul,  and  blessed  him  with  intelligence?" 

Tyler  threw  the  photographs  into  the  drawer  with  a 
tragic  gesture  of  despair,  adding:  "They  are  like  a  Dooms- 

318 


The  Lone  Furrow 


day  Book;  poor,  poor  weak  humanity!  Two  in  that  lot  are 
ministers;  and  another  is  of  a  man  who  was  a  leading  mer- 
chant of  Montreal  at  one  time,  and  now  he  is  an  inmate  of 
the  Rest  at  Longue  Point,  landed  there  by  women  and  wine ; 
his  family  are  beggars.  The  man  you  seek  for  is  not  in  that 
lot?"  Tyler  asked  of  Malcolm,  who  had  scrutinized  each 
pictured  face  that  was  a  map  of  irresponsible  weakness. 

"  No,"  Bain  answered. 

"  Describe  him  to  me,  please." 

It  was  easy  to  paint  in  words  Munro's  unusual  face,  and 
when  Malcolm  had  drawn  a  vivid  picture  of  it,  Tyler  said : 
"  You  have  described  a  man  who  comes  here  at  irregular 
intervals.  He  is  indeed  an  eloquent  man ;  his  soul  is  on  fire 
with  zeal,  and  when  he  speaks  to  my  poor  people,  even  their 
indifference  falls  from  them  and  they  come  close  to  him  in 
understanding.  I  don't  know  who  he  is,  I  know  nothing 
about  him.  He  is  the  only  man  who  has  ever  come  here 
that  I  could  never  get  close  to.  Of  course  I  knew  there  was 
some  tragedy  in  his  life — I  thought  it  was  drink.  I've  spoken 
to  him;  but  he  seemed  like  some  timid  deer,  an  approach 
abrupt,  or  persistent, 'might  drive  him  away  not  to  return. 
I  was  sure  of  it,  so  I  just  let  him  come  and  go  as  he 
wished." 

"  It  must  be  Munro,"  Malcolm  said  to  me.  Then  of 
Tyler  he  asked:  "When  do  you  expect  him  again?" 

"  He  usually  comes  on  a  Sunday.  He  hasn't  visited  us 
for  two  weeks  now,  so  it's  quite  likely  he  may  be  here 
first  Sabbath — either  in  the  morning  or  evening." 

"  We  thank  you,  Mr.  Tyler,"  Bain  said ;  "  and  here's 
our  hotel  address  if  you  should  happen  to  see  this  man.  I 
think  we'll  just  wait  till  Sunday." 

319 


The  Lone  Furrow 


Walking  back  to  the  hotel  Malcolm  said :  "  I  feel  it  in 
my  bones  that  we'll  meet  in  with  Neil  Sunday.  We  can  look 
for  him  in  the  meantime,  and  the  wait  will  give  me  a  chance 
to  arrange  with  Doctor  Lupin  to  take  Robert  home,  if  he's 
agreeable.  We'll  be  mighty  proud  men  going  back  with  the 
two  of  them — what  do  you  say,  Cameron?" 

"  You're  counting  your  chickens,  Malcolm,"  I  answered. 

"  I  like  to  do  that ;  I  have  an  idea  that  sometimes  it 
makes  it  come  about." 

For  the  remainder  of  the  week  we  were  busy,  always 
patroling  the  streets  watching  for  Neil,  or  seeing  the  doc- 
tor about  Robert.  I  wanted  Bain  to  employ  the  detective 
force  to  find  Munro,  but  he  objected,  giving  as  his  reason : 

"  We'll  just  go  slow,  man.  If  we  apply  to  the  detec- 
tives it'll  all  come  out  in  the  papers,  and  the  village  will 
ring  with  it.  Man  alive!  I  can  hear  them  in  Reid's  store 
telling  of  our  hunt  as  though  we  were  tracking  a  bear. 
We'll  just  wait  till  Sunday,  and  if  we  can't  do  any  good 
ourselves,  we'll  get  help  from  a  detective." 

So,  our  spirits  hovering  between  hope  and  fear,  we 
waited,  and  Sunday  came  with  us  still  living  on  expectation. 

At  nine  o'clock  we  were  at  the  Mission  door.  We  en- 
tered into  an  atmosphere  of  coffee.  If  a  London  fog  were, 
just  a  steam  cloud  rising  from  a  Titanic  coffee  pot,  it  could 
not  have  been  more  pungently  odorous  than  the  large  Mis- 
sion hall,  with  Its  row  upon  row  of  chairs,  each  chair  pos- 
sessed of  a  thin-clad  man  waiting  for  his  mug  of  coffee  and 
bread  and  butter. 

We  took  seats  in  the  back  row,  Bain  whispering:  "  Man! 
but  it's  a  charitable  atmosphere.  Godliness  and  giving  are 
twins;  it's  God's  whole  manner  of  manifestation.  That's 

320 


The  Lone  Furrow 


what  He  is — just  godliness  and  giving;  it's  the  humans  I'm 
thinking  that  tack  many  other  attributes  on  to  His  name. 
This  Tyler  is  a  methodical  Christian,  which  is  also  good. 
Poor  de'ils,  poor  de'ils!  "  Bain  added  softly,  scanning  the 
yellow-gray  faces;  "their  shoulders  droop  with  the  load  of 
harassing  sin  that  strikes  at  their  physical  bodies,  even  if 
they  managed  to  tuck  away  their  souls  beyond  its  sting." 

Assistants  scurried  up  and  down  the  aisles  with  huge 
coffee  pots  and  great  mounds  of  snowy  bread. 

I  watched  the  pathetic  faces,  lengthened  by  adversity, 
soften  and  round  out  almost  to  fullness  as  the  generous 
warmth  of  the  simple  fare  relaxed  the  stricture  of  their 
pinched  stomachs. 

"  It  is  good  to  give,  Malcolm,"  I  opined. 

"  Aye ;  there's  a  quick  reward  in  giving  to  a  fellow-crea- 
ture. I  never  hankered  much  for  wealth  myself,  but  it 
would  be  great  business  to  have  means  to  double  the  size 
of  this  place." 

The  Reverend  Tyler,  coming  to  us  at  that  minute  said: 
"  We've  dispensed  fifty-five  gallons  of  coffee  and  fifty  loaves 
of  bread." 

"  It's   a  grand   work,"  commented   Malcolm. 

"  After  the  serving  of  the  coffee,"  Tyler  said,  "  we  have 
a  service  of  song  and  a  few  words  said  in  the  cause.  Will 
you  come  up  to  the  platform  ?  " 

"  We'll  wait  here,"  Malcolm  answered. 

"  Very  well.  If  the  man  I  spoke  of  appears,  he'll  come 
in  at  the  back  entrance ;  he'll  take  a  seat  quietly  on  the  plat- 
form, and  when  I  invite  him  to  speak  he'll  hold  them  for 
about  ten  minutes.  After  that  he  always  goes  back  into  the 
eating  room,  that  is,  through  that  door  behind  the  platform, 

321 


The  Lone  Furrow 


and  has  a  cup  of  coffee  and  bread  and  butter.  That  will 
be  your  opportunity  to  meet  him." 

Then  Tyler  went  up  to  the  platform,  took  a  seat  at  a 
small  organ,  and  said  in  his  strong,  resonant  voice:  "  Now, 
men,  let's  have  a  good  song  service  for  once.  Hymn 
142 — 142]  Let  your  neighbor  look  on  with  you — we're 
short  of  books.  All  sing  together  now."  Tyler's  powerful 
baritone  sent  the  sweet  words  of  the  hymn  echoing  through 
the  packed  room,  and  the  men  took  it  up. 

"  It  is  Jesus— 

At  the  end  of  the  first  verse  Tyler  commanded :  "  Sing 
it  again — better.  We're  not  all  singing.  Let's  have  the  best 
song-service  we  ever  had. — That's  good!  Now  for  the  sec- 
ond verse — Lift  it  up!  Now  we'll  sing  No.  90." 

One  of  the  assistants  repeated  the  number  in  French. 

After  a  prayer  Mr.  Tyler  came  forward  to  the  small 
desk  at  the  front  of  the  platform,  saying:  "  Now  I  am 
going  to  read  to  you  a  short  story  that  comes  very  close  into 
your  own  lives,  and  I'm  going  to  tell  you  about  it.  It's  in 
the  sixth  chapter  of  the  book  of  John,  the  first  thirteen 
verses." 

"  Now,"  he  continued,  when  he  had  read  of  the  loaves 
and  the  fishes,  "  there  is  something  you  can  understand. 
There  were  all  those  people  gathered  in  that  place,  and 
nothing  to  eat.  But  the  Disciple  Andrew  found  one  little 
lad  who  had  five  barley  loaves,  the  size  of  that " — holding 
up  his  fist — "  the  size  of  a  hot  bun — same  as  your  mother 
made.  You  remember  your  mothers,  some  of  you  " — the 
speaker  leaned  his  broad  shoulders  over  the  little  desk  and 
the  great  baritone  that  had  echoed  through  the  hall  the 
sweet  hymn,  now  sank  low  and  pleading — "  you  remember 

322 


The  Lone  Furrow 


when  you  were  like  this  little  lad,  you  were  going  off  on 
a  journey,  perhaps  fishing  or  to  school,  and  your  mother 
would  fill  your  pockets  with  cakes  or  buns  or  biscuits. 
Don't  you  wish  you  were  there  now  with  that  mother  that 
never  put  in  your  pocket  poison  to  destroy  either  your  body 
or  your  soul  ?  " 

My  gaze  had  been  riveted  on  the  blue-gray  eyes  of  the 
earnest  speaker;  they  had  really  become  violet  in  their 
intensity. 

Suddenly  I  felt  Bain's  powerful  hand  on  my  wrist,  and 
he  whispered,  without  turning  his  head:  "Heavens!  Cam- 
eron, yonder  is  Neil !  " 

The  eating-room  door  back  of  the  platform  stood  half 
open,  held  by  a  man  who  had  hesitated  on  the  threshold. 

I  saw  the  pale  olive  face  of  Neil  Munro;  his  eyes,  once 
like  living  stars  in  their  brilliancy,  now  heavy  with  weari- 
ness, rested  vacantly  upon  the  sea  of  faces  that  fronted  him. 

"  Now  I  pray  God,"  I  heard  Tyler  say,  "  that  there  is 
some  man  here  this  morning  who  considers  his  soul  of  more 
value  than  whisky.  Do  you  hear?"  he  cried,  his  powerful 
voice  rising  till  the  heavy  air  of  the  room  vibrated ;  "  just 
one  man  regenerated  to  this  point  is  sufficient  recompense 
for  all  that  the  Lord  has  done  for  you  here.  Go  back,  men, 
to  the  wives  that  you've  left  to  starve,  and  be  men  again! 
Go  back  to  the  mothers  who  need  your  help,  and  be  sons! 
Go  back  to  the  women  you  married,  and  the  bairns  you've 
brought  into  the  world,  and  take  care  of  them !  " 

As  Munro  slipped  quietly  to  a  vacant  seat  on  the  plat- 
form, Tyler  turned  his  head  at  a  creaking  of  the  chair;  then 
he  continued :  "  Now,  men,  may  God  incline  your  hearts  a 
little  to  receive  the  weak  words  I  have  spoken.  An  old 

323 


The  Lone  Furrow 


friend  of  yours  has  come  to  offer  testimony  to  God's  good- 
ness and  love  for  His  creatures." 

The  Superintendent  sat  down,  and  Neil  stepped  forward 
to  the  desk  with  a  tired,  listless  movement. 

"  Still  working  himself  to  death,"  Malcolm  whispered. 

A  solemn  hush  fell  over  the  room;  the  men  charmed  to 
silence  by  Neil's  clear,  flutelike  voice — soft,  cultured,  sound- 
ing strangely  beautiful  in  its  tempered  modulation;  perhaps 
this  exquisite  quality  accentuated  by  comparison  with  the 
vigorous  rhetoric  of  the  preceding  speaker. 

"  God  so  loved  the  world  that  He  gave  His  only  be- 
gotten Son,"  Munro  began. 

Then  he  wooed  the  men,  draggled  of  raiment  and  soul, 
with  the  love  of  God  as  told  by  the  lips  of  Jesus  Christ. 
Munro  might  have  been  a  lover  sent  on  earth  by  God  to 
win  the  hearts  and  souls  of  sinners,  of  men  hardened  by 
adversity. 

His  audience  listened  as  they  might  have  harkened  to 
words  from  a  wise  child ;  a  sweet  simple  message  of  finding 
their  souls  through  opening  their  hearts  to  Divine  love. 

Then  he  went  back  to  Tyler's  denunciation  of  love  of 
the  body,  saying:  "All  the  warfare  with  God  is  because  of 
the  body.  There  are  just  two  things  in  the  world  for  you 
to  consider — the  soul,  which  is  God;  and  the  body,  which 
is  the  devil.  When  you  want  to  do  right,  that  is  your  soul 
guiding  you;  when  you  do  wrong — the  still  spirit  within 
you  which  is  your  soul  telling  you  that  it  is  wrong — that 
is  your  body  with  its  carnal  earthiness.  It  is  one  long  war- 
fare, with  happiness  forever  and  ever  the  reward  of  vic- 
tory. It  is  hard.  I  weep  with  you  in  your  defeat,  for  I 
know  how  hard  it  is." 

324 


The  Lone  Furrow 


Bain  whispered  in  my  ear,  "  It's  almost  unorthodox,  but 
it's  grand  sense.  It's  like  Nicholas  of  Cusa." 

"  There  was  a  man,"  Neil  continued,  "  who  wanted  to 
carry  on  this  soul  work  of  God's;  his  spirit  was  strong  but 
his  body  was  weak.  And  he  sinned  against  his  soul  to 
strengthen  the  body  until  the  body  conquered  in  sin  the 
soul.  That  you  will  understand,  for  you  have  done  the 
same  thing,  many  of  you.  And  it  leads  to  nothing  but 
despair " 

"  I  can't  follow  him,"  Malcolm  whispered ;  "  it's  not 
clear — is  he  confused?  Poor  Neil!  I'm  afraid  he's  a 
doomed  man." 

"  Wait,"  I  answered ;  "  I  understand  him." 

Neil  had  rested  weakly  for  a  second,  hesitatingly,  as 
though  he  groped  in  his  mind  or  was  waiting  for  strength. 
Now  he  spoke  again — his  voice  was  firmer. 

'  The  man  I  spoke  of  stands  before  you,  brothers ;  not  as 
a  teacher  to  lead,  but  just  as  one  of  yourselves,  a  shattered 
weakling  to  plead  with  you  to  be  strong — all  for  your 
souls,  even  to  the  sacrifice  of  the  body  and  its  desires.  There 
is  but  one " 

He  stopped.  I  had  a  fancy  that  his  eyes  were  fixed 
upon  my  face.  His  hand  clutched  at  the  desk  and  he 
leaned  for  a  second  heavily  on  his  arm ;  then  he  added,  and 
his  voice  wavered,  "  The  peace  of  God  be  with  you,  and 
the  love  of  Jesus  Christ." 

He  turned  away  and  walked  brokenly  back  through  the 
door. 

As  he  disappeared  Tyler  rose  hurriedly,  came  to  the 
front  of  the  platform,  raised  his  hands  in  benediction, 
and  over  the  bowed  heads  the  simple  prayer  floated  back 

325 


The  Lone  Furrow 


to   where   we    sat    possessed    of    an    impatience    to    follow 
Neil. 

As  the  "  Amen  "  rang  sonorously  through  the  hall,  Mal- 
colm, clutching  me  by  the  arm,  cried,  "  Come,  man,  quick! 
we'll  find  Minister  nicely  at  his  breakfast." 

We  hurried  up  the  aisle,  and  Tyler,  waiting,  said:  "  This 
way,  gentlemen;  you'll  find  him  at  the  corner  table  by  the 
window." 

We  passed  through  the  door  to  a  room  containing  but 
the  two  helpers.  Neil  was  not  at  the  window  table,  nor 
anywhere  within. 

In  fear  we  questioned  a  waiter.  The  pale-faced  man 
who  had  spoken  had  not  stopped  for  his  usual  breakfast, 
but  had  passed  by  the  side  door  to  the  street. 

"  Heavens!  Malcolm,"  I  moaned;  "  have  we  found  Neil 
and  lost  him  ?  " 

"  He's  gone,  but  we've  not  lost  him,"  practical  Bain 
answered ;  "  he  can't  get  away  from  us  now  when  we 
know  he's  here  in  the  flesh.  We  were  fair  stupid  though. 
One  of  us  should  have  gone  out  the  front  and  come  around 
to  this  door." 

"  I  thought  of  it,  Bain,  but  the  front  door  was  locked 
and  I  didn't  want  to  disturb  the  meeting." 

We  passed  to  the  street  and  tramped  up  and  down,  back 
and  forth,  for  an  hour  without  discovering  a  trace  of  Munro. 

"  I  can't  make  it  out,"  I  said.  "  I  saw  him  looking  our 
way  just  as  he  partly  broke  down;  we  were  in  the  dark 
corner  by  Tyler's  office,  but  still  I'm  half  inclined  to  think 
he  recognized  me." 

"  It  may  have  been  just  that  he  wasn't  feeling  very 
well,"  Bain  suggested ;  "  he  looked  ill,  goodness  knows." 

326 


The  Lone  Furrow 


"At  any  rate  he's  gone  again!"  I  declared.  "But 
seeing  him  alive  has  taken  a  load  off  my  mind.  We'll  just 
go  back  to  the  hotel  and  I'll  write  a  letter  to  the  Mem- 
sahib  that  we've  found  Minister  at  last." 

"  Yes — that's  a  grand  idea ;  it  wouldn't  do  to  telegraph, 
in  many  ways.  But  we're  near  the  Mission  again,  and  I'm 
going  in  to  have  a  little  advice  from  the  Reverend  Tyler — 
he's  a  wise  man." 

When  we  told  Tyler  of  our  hopeless  search,  he  said: 
"  Indeed,  you  might  look  a  year  for  a  man  in  this  city  and 
not  find  him;  it's  like  a  rabbit  warren  with  its  narrow, 
old-fashioned  streets  and  tumble-down  rookeries;  and  the 
two  nationalities,  French  and  English,  jealous  of  each 
other,  unwilling  to  give  information.  Why  don't  you  go 
to  Mr.  Carter,  the  head  of  the  detective  force — he'll  find 
your  friend  for  you  in  a  day  ?  " 

I  told  Tyler  of  our  desire  for  secrecy;  but  he  declared 
we  need  have  no  fear  on  that  head.  "  Mr.  Carter  is  a 
friend  of  mine,"  he  said,  "  and  is  one  of  the  finest  char- 
acters I  have  ever  known.  Indeed,  you'll  be  surprised  to 
come  upon  such  a  man  in  that  occupation.  He  has  the 
fine  susceptibilities  of  a  woman,  though  he's  a  terror  to 
the  godless.  I'll  give  you  a  letter  of  introduction  to  him — 
better  still,  I'll  make  an  appointment  with  him  for  to- 
morrow at  eleven — that's  the  best  time  to  see  him — and  I'll 
go  to  his  office  with  you." 

At  eleven  o'clock  next  morning  we  stood  in  an  ante- 
room to  the  detective's  private  office,  having  sent  in  a  card. 

"  Man,  I  feel  like  a  criminal,"  Bain  expressed,  as  we 
looked  curiously  into  a  huge  glass-fronted  cabinet  that  stood 
against  one  wall.  It  contained  a  vast  assortment  of  bur- 

327 


The  Lone  Furrow 


glar's  tools — implements  of  iniquity,  each  one  labeled  with 
its  particular  association  in  crime;  murderous  slungshots, 
billies,  jimmies,  iron  drills,  fuses,  dark  lanterns,  knives,  pis- 
tols— an  interminable  collection. 

Half  fascinated  by  their  suggestion  of  human  depravity, 
my  soul  revolted  against  the  contaminating  association  of 
all  these  depressing  things — the  depraved  fallen  ones  of  the 
Mission's  care,  the  filthy  narrow  streets  we  had  traversed 
yesterday  in  our  search,  our  appeal  to  the  officer  of  the 
law  whose  occupation  was  the  hunting  down  of  the  crim- 
inal owners  of  these  lawless  tools — with  the  name  of  a 
minister  of  the  gospel,  with  Neil  Munro,  pastor  of  a  quiet 
village  where  the  greatest  crime  was  perhaps  a  drunken 
row  on  the  street. 

It  seemed  impossible — it  confused  my  mind.  Somehow  I 
thought  of  Jean  Valjean  creeping  out  of  the  sewer;  there 
it  was,  similitude,  the  sweet-hearted  little  cure  and  Jean 
who  stole  his  silver  candlesticks.  How  closely  the  two 
came  together  at  times,  purity  and  hopeless  depravity. 

I  was  roused  from  this  gloomy  retrospect  by  Tyler's 
voice:  "  Come,  gentlemen,  Mr.  Carter  will  see  us  now." 

As  the  detective  rose  to  greet  us,  and  listening  to  his 
quiet  even  voice,  looking  into  his  steady  blue  eye,  clear 
and  placid,  I  realized  again  vividly  how,  shoulder  to  shoul- 
der, moral  worth  and  vicious  sinfulness  stood;  hand  upon 
arm,  and  yet  separated  by  illimitable  distances.  Here  was 
the  cure,  and  almost  at  his  elbow  the  tools  of  Jean  Valjean. 

"  Just  tell  me  all  about  the  case — as  much  as  you  think 
necessary,"  he  corrected  himself,  "  with  a  view  to  accom- 
plishing your  errand." 

When  I  ended  in  shamed  apology:  "It's  perhaps  un- 
328 


The  Lone  Furrow 


usual  to  ask  you  to  trace  a  minister,  it  is  incongruous — it 
looks  so  criminal-like." 

"  You  are  not  the  first  to  come  on  that  errand,"  he 
answered.  "  I  mustn't  talk,  you  know,  but  as  those  who  use 
slang  put  it,  '  there  are  others ' ;  and,  though  it  may  sound 
harsh,  we'll  trail  after  your  friend  just  as  though  we 
searched  for  a  criminal.  It's  the  only  way.  When  laymen 
can't  find  a  missing  man  he's  generally  in  hiding,  voluntarily, 
or  by  force,  or  dead.  I'll  give  you  the  best  man  on  the 
staff,  and  all  doors  must  open  to  his  knock.  He'll  find 
your  friend  if  he's  alive  and  in  the  city,  and  you  say  he 
is.  That  is  all  I  can  do,  gentlemen — it's  enough,  too,  ex- 
cept, of  course,  as  you  wish,  see  that  everything  is  done 
quite  secretly;  I  can  manage  that — it's  our  usual  way  of 
working,  so  it  will  be  quite  no  trouble.  Perhaps  Connor 
may  even  know  just  where  to  put  his  hand  upon  your  man." 

The  Chief  touched  a  button  on  his  desk,  and  a  clerk 
appeared. 

"  Request  Mr.  Connor  to  come  here,  please,"  Carter  said. 

Presently  a  door  opened  and  a  tall  handsome  young 
Irishman  entered  and  saluted  his  Chief. 

"Do  you  remember  that  minister,  Connor?"  Carter 
asked,  in  a  low,  even  voice. 

To  me  the  very  quietude  of  his  tone,  suggesting  some- 
thing of  indifference,  as  though  he  inquired  for  a  pair  of 
mislaid  boots,  compared  with  our  intense  anxiety,  thrilled 
me  unpleasantly. 

And  when  Connor  asked  in  return,  "  Which  one,  sir  ?  " 

I    shivered.      Was   there   indeed   no   strong  broad   line  of 

demarcation   between   the   horrible   wielders   of   the   slung- 

shot   and    men   consecrated    to   God's   work?     Was  crim- 

22  329 


The  Lone  Furrow 


inology  a  huge  tentacled  devilfish  that,  reaching  out,  drew 
man  from  the  slums  or  from  the  pulpit  alike.  Which 
minister!  which  man  of  sin,  under  the  eye  of  the  de- 
tective, labeled  "  minister  "  ? 

"Were  there  more  than  one?"  Carter  asked  in  this 
trilogy  of  irritating  questions. 

"  Yes,  sir ;  I've  been  observing  at  least  three." 

"  Well,  the  man  we  want  is — "  Then  the  Chief  de- 
scribed Munro  with  intense,  crisp  splashes  of  word  color; 
it  was  marvelous  how  he  had  condensed  our  lengthy  de- 
scription of  Neil's  person. 

The  young  officer  turned  toward  me,  and  searched  me 
through  and  through. 

The  transition  in  his  face  was  wonderful;  the  roguish 
Celtic  blue  eyes,  boyish  and  frank,  hardened,  and  took  on 
a  cunning  animal  look.  I  thought  the  Chief  had  not  no- 
ticed this,  but  his  words  taught  me  that  I  was  mistaken. 

"  It's  all  right,  Connor,"  he  advised;  "  the  missing  man 
is  a  friend  of  these  two  gentlemen;  he  has  disappeared  and 
they  are  looking  for  him.  They  want  to  take  him  back 
to  his  family;  there  seems  to  be  something  wrong  with  the 
poor  man." 

"  I  can  find  him,  sir." 

"When?"  the  Chief  asked. 

"  Perhaps  to-night ;  perhaps  to-morrow  night." 

Why  at  night,  I  wondered.  But  Malcolm  expressed  his 
anxiety.  "  Couldn't  Mr.  Connor  be  spared  to-day?  "  he 
said ;  "  we  are  very  anxious  and  would  be  willing  to  pay 
any  charges  for  time." 

"  It  isn't  that,"  the  Chief  answered,  and  his  quiet  eyes 
were  raised  inquiringly  to  the  detective's  face. 

330 


The  Lone  Furrow 


The  latter  answered  the  look,  explaining:  "  I  don't 
know  where  to  look  for  him  in  the  day." 

"  Quite  so — quite  so,"  remarked  the  Chief,  just  as 
though  his  assistant  had  explained  everything.  "  And  what 
hour  to-night  had  these  gentlemen  better  call  here  for  you, 
Connor?  You  are  at  liberty  to  take  your  own  time,  you 
know,  on  this  case." 

"  Nine  o'clock,  sir."  He  ran  his  fingers  through  his 
brown  curly  hair,  coughed  nervously,  and  twice  his  lips 
framed  words  which  remained  unuttered. 

"Anything  else,  Connor?"  the  Chief  asked. 

"  Faith,  sir,  I'm  thinkin'  I'd  better  be  askin'  for  leave 
off  duty  for  twenty-four  hours." 

The  Chief  drew  down  his  brows  in  a  puzzled  manner; 
then  they  lifted  and  his  face  cleared  with  enlightenment. 
"  I  see — yes,  it  would  be  as  well,  Connor."  Turning  to 
me,  he  continued :  "  He  will  go  with  you  unofficially ;  it 
will  be  better.  You  can  trust  Mr.  Connor  absolutely." 

As  we  made  our  way  back  to  the  hotel,  Malcolm  said: 
"  I'm  thinking  I'm  asleep,  that  it's  a  dream.  It's  like  some- 
thing one  reads  in  books  and  never  believes." 

"  It  is  just  life,"  I  answered.  "  Presidents  come  from 
the  log  cabin  and  nobles  grovel  penniless.  You  were  mean- 
ing, Malcolm,  it  seems  impossible  to  conceive  of  a  man 
of  Munro's  character  under  this  cloud." 

"Yes,  just  that.  It's  impossible  to  think  of  Munro  as 
a  man  to  be  hunted  for  with  a  policeman — there's  some- 
thing uncanny  about  the  business.  But  we  must  go  through 
to  the  bitter  end;  there's  no  taking  the  hand  from  the 
plow  now.  We'll  find  Neil — yon  Irish  lad  had  no  humming 
and  hawing  about  his  part  of  it." 

331 


The  Lone  Furrow 


"  But  why  did  he  say  that  we  must  search  for  Neil  at 
night,  Malcolm,"  I  asked,  "  as  though  he  were  some 
prowler  of  the  dark  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  that  a  detective  works  better  in  the  dark — 
like  an  owl  he  swoops  unseen  upon  his  prey.  And,  besides, 
it's  very  likely  that  Minister,  if  he  is  laboring  among  these 
waifs,  can  also  find  them  better  at  night." 

"  Well,  we'll  soon  know,"  I  answered  wearily.  "  But 
I  tell  you,  Bain,  my  soul  shrivels  before  a  dread  something; 
an  evil  foreboding  thrusts  itself  into  my  mind  and  I  can't 
shake  it  off." 

All  that  day  it  was  in  this  mood  that  we  waited  for  the 
time  of  search;  questionings  and  misgivings  on  my  part, 
and  Bain  buoying  me  up  with  his  superior  physical  resil- 
iency, sending  out  his  optimistic  courage  to  vicariously  walk 
me  upon  the  waters  of  despond. 

There  was  a  visit  to  Robert;  and  when  we  told  him 
what  we  had  done,  he  said :  "  Yes,  they'll  find  Neil  for 
you.  And  you'll  just  bear  with  him  when  he's  found,  won't 
you — no  matter  how  it  is  you'll —  What  am  I  saying?" 
he  broke  off. 

"Of  what,  Robert?"  I  queried  suspiciously,  wonder- 
ing whether  now  he  wouldn't  speak. 

But  he  turned  his  head  wearily  away,  saying:  "  Poor 
Neil!  I  wonder  how  God  has  arranged  it  for  him."  Then 
he  changed,  to  speak  of  himself,  of  his  going  home  with 
us;  for  Doctor  Lupin  thought  there  was  nothing  to  be 
done  now  but  wait  for  Time's  remedy — and  that  prom- 
ising nothing  but  just  the  solace  of  confirmed  helplessness 
— a  state  of  safe  invalidism. 

It  was  a  little  past  nine  o'clock  when  we  stepped  from 

332 


The  Lone  Furrow 


police  headquarters  into  a  night  air  that  bit  at  our  cheeks 
with  stinging  teeth  and  tingled  our  nerves  with  its  vibrant 
crispness.  Beneath  our  feet,  swinging  into  the  soldier  stride 
of  the  detective,  the  frozen  snow  sang  like  struck  wires;  the 
stars  glittered  blue-white  in  a  placid  sky,  and  a  stillness 
reigned  over  the  great  city  as  though  men  hid  from  a  death 
angel  stalking  through  its  ways. 

Following  our  guide  we  turned  from  a  wider  street 
through  paths  that  lay  crooked  and  narrow  and  dark  be- 
tween high  embattlements  of  brick  and  stone.  The  dismal 
gloom  of  this  scarce  lighted  way  thrust  me  back  in  mem- 
ory to  the  old  days  of  trailing  dacoits  through  Burmese 
jungles;  there  was  the  same  oppressive  hush  as  if  serpents 
and  sin  lurked  in  hidden  places  on  either  side.  Perhaps 
the  intensity  of  my  thoughts  claimed  something  of  recipro- 
cal action  in  our  guide's  mind,  for  he  put  his  hand  de- 
tainingly  on  my  arm  and  said :  "  That's  the  worst  door- 
way in  the  city — they  slaughtered  a  poor  chap  there  last 
week;  it  wasn't  the  first,  faith,  but,  indade,  it'll  be  the 
last.  I  think  we  bagged  them  this  trip.  Why  a  land  like 
this,  God's  garden — savin',  of  course,  the  ould  sod — should 
be  overrun  with  Dagoes,  and  Chinks,  an'  Poles  is  what 
beats  me." 

I  did  not  answer  as  we  passed  on;  my  questioning  was 
of  the  matter  in  hand.  Why  were  we  traversing  the  hab- 
itation of  thieves  and  murderers  for  a  minister  of  the 
gospel?  Was  God  asleep — was  it  all  a  lie  that  he  took 
note  of  the  sparrow's  fall? 

"  Easy  a  minute,  sir!  "  the  detective  said,  tapping  lightly 
with  his  knuckle  on  a  wooden  door,  so  narrow  and  darkly 
let  into  the  blank  wall  that  my  eyes  failed  to  outline  it. 

333 


The  Lone  Furrow 


I  heard  the  complaining  creak  of  a  reluctant  bolt;  a 
square  of  dim  uncertain  light  cut  the  darkness  from  a 
panel  of  the  door,  and  a  head  was  silhouetted  framed  in 
this  square  setting.  A  harsh  voice  asked,  "  Huh !  what 
wantee?  " 

The  Irishman's  broad  shoulders  cut  my  vision  as  he  put 
his  face  close  to  the  opening  and  answered :  "  All  right, 
Ying — just  want  makee  look — see." 

There  was  a  disapproving  grunt — the  square  trap  was 
closed  and  I  heard  a  "  yah-honk  "  of  rasping  Chinese  speech 
within.  Then  a  heavier  bolt  grated  in  its  sockets  and  the 
door  swung  cautiously  open;  we  slipped  within  and  it  was 
closed  again  behind  us. 

My  lungs  rebelled  at  the  pungent,  acrid  atmosphere. 
Again  my  memory  carried  me  swift  to  Indian  bazaars,  with 
their  conglomerate  smells  of  hookah  pipe,  and  burning  cow 
dung,  and  gnapie. 

Connor  tipped  his  head  toward  us  and  whispered: 
"Don't  ask  any  questions;  just  put  on  your  holiday  face. 
Them  divils  is  quick  as  cats." 

We  were  in  a  basement  as  respectably  furnished  as  a 
stable.  On  my  left  was  a  pile  of  charcoal  which  nestled 
against  a  stove;  partitions  cut  the  room  into  stalls  on  either 
side,  and  in  each  division  was  a  raised  platform  like  a 
wide  double  bunk. 

As  we  went  down  the  center  a  tall,  slim,  white  man, 
in  shirt  sleeves,  stood  adjusting  his  tie.  At  sight  of  us  he 
turned  quickly  and  busied  himself  in  a  corner  with  his 
face  turned  to  the  wall. 

"  That's  a  new  duck  at  the  game,"  Connor  whispered ; 
"  he's  ashamed  of  being  seen.  But  there's  a  couple  of  old 

334 


The  Lone  Furrow 


birds,"  he  continued,  indicating  with  a  nod  a  platform  upon 
which  two  white  men  reclined.  Between  them  rested  a 
little  glass  lamp  half  full  of  oil  in  which  floated  a  lighted 
wick.  With  a  steel  needle,  one  of  the  men  picked  a  little 
ball  of  black  sticky  substance  from  the  back  of  a  playing 
card  and  held  it  for  three  seconds  in  the  blaze  of  the 
lighted  wick;  then  he  rolled  and  worked  it  on  the  stone 
bowl  of  a  bamboo-stemmed  pipe. 

"Man  alive!  what's  he  up  to?"  Malcolm  asked  in  a 
low  voice. 

"  Cookin'  the  opium,"  Connor  answered.  "  Faith,  he's 
as  handy  with  the  damn  stuff  as  a  Chink." 

"Opium!"  ejaculated  Malcolm  in  an  awed  whisper; 
"man  alive!  are  we  in  an  opium  shop?" 

Suddenly  a  little  gust  of  wind — somebody  had  opened 
a  door  or  a  window  at  the  farther  end  of  the  room — 
carried  a  bitter  acrid  odor  from  the  sizzling,  sputtering 
bead  of  opium  to  my  nostrils. 

It  was  like  somebody  calling  to  me  out  of  the  past.  At 
last  I  knew  what  poisonous  drug  smell  I  had  caught  in  the 
manse  study — opium  \ 

"May  I  look  at  one  of  those  pipes?"  I  asked  Connor. 

The  detective  spoke  to  one  of  the  smokers  and  he  reached 
his  pipe  to  me.  I  put  it  close  to  my  nose,  and  then  knew 
there  could  be  no  doubt — it  was  the  opium  smell  that  had 
clung  to  Neil's  gloves  and  his  pens  and  the  drawer  of  the 
desk  from  which  Robert  had  taken  something  to  hide  from 
my  eyes. 

Though  I  had  been  in  India  and  had  seen  the  debauched 
victims  of  this  pernicious  drug  in  hundreds,  yet  till  now 
I  had  never  known  its  pestilential  breath. 

335 


The  Lone  Furrow 


Malcolm  looked  at  me  and  shuddered.  "  Put  that 
devil's  weapon  of  destruction  out  of  your  hand,  man," 
he  said ;  "  let's  get  out  of  this — it's  like  being  in  hell— 
we're  wasting  time;  we're  out  to  look  for  our  friend,  not 
to  gaze  on  this  unholy  work." 

"  I'm  lookin'  for  your  friend,"  Connor  answered  quietly; 
"  you  must  leave  it  to  me." 

Bain  turned  his  face  to  me  in  perplexity.  The  dim 
light  showed  furrows  of  care  in  his  forehead  and  a  sigh 
of  impatience  escaped  him. 

"What  does  he  mean?"  Bain  asked.  "We'll  not  find 
Neil  among  these  pagans  and  their  victims." 

I  shook  my  head. 

"  Perhaps  he's  after  some  one  that  knows  where  Neil 
lives." 

I  nodded. 

Connor  had  gone  on  down  to  the  lower  end  of  the 
room  where  I  could  see  a  door.  He  spoke  to  a  Chinaman 
who  had  accompanied  him  and  the  latter,  opening  the  door, 
they  passed  through  it. 

I  stood  watching  curiously  the  process  of  preparing  the 
insidious  drug.  There  was  a  deceitful  air  of  simplicity 
about  the  performance  that  served  to  accentuate  its  dread- 
ful, unapparent  fatality.  The  man  who  cooked  and  rolled 
it  with  loving  care  was  young;  but  in  his  eyes — the  whites 
of  which  were  shrouded  in  blue-gray — and  in  his  manner — 
deliberate,  monotonous — was  the  solemnity  of  a  thousand 
years.  He  fashioned  the  evil  thing  till  it  was  like  a  large 
black  bead  on  the  end  of  his  needle,  and  as  he  held  it  in 
the  blaze  again  it  sputtered  viciously  with  resinous  avidity. 
It  was  cooked.  He  forced  it  into  the  small  hole  of  the 

336 


The  Lone  Furrow 


stone  bowl  and  passed  it  to  his  friend,  who  was  lying  with 
his  shoulders  on  a  cushion.  The  latter  held  the  pipe  to 
the  lighted  wick,  put  the  end  of  the  large  bamboo  stem  to 
his  lips,  and  drew  a  dozen  draughts  of  the  smoke  of 
oblivion. 

"My    God!    isn't    it    awful!"     Malcolm    whispered. 
"  They're  fair  callous — they're  past  all  shame.     I've  heard 
of  the  effrontery  of  sin,  but  this  is  heathenish !  " 
"  It  is  dreadful !  "  I  concurred. 

In  my  soul  I  shed  tears  of  bitterness  for  the  hopeless 
fate  of  these  galley-slaves.  Unbreakable  the  chain  that  ate 
its  links  into  their  hearts. 

The  door  at  the  other  end  of  the  room  reopened  and 
the  detective,  coming  back,  stood  at  my  side. 

"Ain't  it  hell,  sir?"  he  asked,  nodding  his  handsome 
head  toward  the  smokers. 

His   attitude — his    tall,   lithe,   sinewy   form,    topped   by 

the  well-set-on  head,  crying  aloud  of  clean  living,  radiated 

by  comparison  with  the  pasty-faced  smokers,  a  moral  lesson. 

"  I'd  like  to  speak  to  that  young  man,"  I  said ;  "  would 

it  matter — would  they  object?  " 

"  Don't  lecture  him ;  faith,  it  might  kick  up  a  divil  of 
a  shindy  if  you  did." 

I  approached  the  man  who  had  prepared  the  pipe.  His 
dull  eyes  watched  me  apathetically,  much  as  a  sleepy  ani- 
mal's might  have. 

"  May  I  speak  to  you  about  the  opium  ?  "  I  said. 
"  Yes,"  he  answered. 

"  How  is  it  sold  here?  "  It  was  an  idle  question  just 
born  of  the  intense  curiosity  that  the  dramatic  situation 
excited. 

337 


The  Lone  Furrow 


"  Twenty-five  cents  a  card."  His  voice  was  monot- 
onous, unmodulated;  he  spoke  in  the  tones  of  a  man  al- 
most deaf,  the  dreamy  voice  of  a  Lotus  Eater. 

On  the  card  beside  him  was  a  little  pitch  lake,  the  size  of 
a  coat  button. 

"  How  much  do  you  smoke?  "  I  asked,  with  an  apology. 

His  senses  unacute,  grasped  nothing  but  the  direct  query. 
"  Three  cards  a  day,"  he  answered  listlessly ;  "  one  in  the 
morning,  one  in  the  afternoon,  and  one  at  night." 

"  Does  it  make  you  forget  your  troubles?  " 

"  I  don't  forget  my  troubles,"  he  answered  in  the  heavy 
singsong  voice. 

The  deathly  perfume  of  the  smoker's  pipe  hung  repul- 
sively in  my  nostrils  as  he  laid  it  down  with  a  sigh  of 
weariness.  I  scanned  his  waxen  face  for  some  sign  of 
exhilaration,  for  some  evidence  of  that  blissful  repose  that 
is  supposed  to  be  the  one  brief  palliation  of  eternal  damna- 
tion. I  detected  nothing  but  unutterable  emptiness;  his 
face  mirrored  from  his  soul  just  an  unmeaning  void.  Un- 
speaking,  silent  he  lay,  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  lamp, 
a  slight  movement  of  his  fingers,  as  he  tapped  idly  on  his 
thigh,  the  only  evidence  of  physical  existence;  his  face  was 
a  mental  blank. 

"We'll  go,  gentlemen — I've  done  no  good  here,"  Con- 
nor said,  buttoning  his  warm  coat. 

As  the  heavy  smoke-blackened  door  swung  inward  when 
we  stepped  to  the  narrow  street,  Malcolm  threw  his  chest 
out,  filling  his  great  lungs.  I,  too,  drank  at  the  clean  air 
as  a  thirsty  horse  revels  in  clear  running  water. 

"  Man  alive!  "  cried  Bain,  "  but  just  a  lung  full  of  this 
heavenly  air  is  better  than  all  the  damnable  drugs  in  the 

338 


The  Lone  Furrow 


world.  Why  did  you  go  into  yon  sink  of  iniquity,  officer?" 
he  asked,  with  a  touch  of  imperious  command  in  his  voice. 
"  Surely  to  God,  man,  you  didn't  expect  to  find  a  minister 
hobnobbing  with  those  heathen  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  Connor  replied,  "  there's  a  minister  hits 
the  pipe  there  the  same  as  any  other  dope  fiend.  And, 
faith,  I'm  thinking  it's  the  man  you're  lookin'  for,  too." 

"Oh,  it  can't  be — it  can't  be!  I  won't  bring  myself 
to  believe  it,  it  doesn't  stand  to  reason.  A  man  couldn't — 
no,  no,  no!  a  man  with  a  good  wife — a  man  who  had  been 
brought  up  a  Christian — himself  a  servant  of  the  Lord — 
couldn't  sink  so  low." 

The  big  Scotchman's  anguish  was  pathetic.  I  knew  as 
well  as  though  he  had  said  it,  that  by  strong  words  he 
was  striving  to  rebuke  the  doubts  that  were  in  his  own 
mind. 

"  Faith,  he's  not  there  now  anyway,"  Connor  said ;  "  but 
it's  early." 

"What  did  the  Chinaman  say — did  you  ask  him?"  I 
queried. 

The  detective  gave  a  little  sniff  of  amusement. 

"  I  did  not;  that  would  have  blown  the  gaff.  Them 
Chinks  have  '  the  wireless '  beat  to  a  standstill.  How  they 
work  it,  it's  meself  don't  know,  but  if  you  let  the  cat  out 
of  the  bag  in  one  of  their  dives  as  to  what  your  game  is 
they're  onto  you  in  all  Chinatown.  Sure,  Ying  was  all 
smiles,  but  that's  the  heathen  Chinee  for  you.  They're 
not  our  friends — they're  the  friends  of  the  men  that  buy 
the  dope;  and  if  I  let  him  know  who  we  were  after  we'd 
never  catch  sight  of  him." 

"What  shall  we  do  now?"  I  asked. 

339 


The  Lone  Furrow 


"  We'll  take  a  look  at  some  of  the  other  places,  and  come 
back  later  on.  It's  here  that  the  man  we're  lookin'  for 
hits  the  pipe." 

We  visited  half  a  dozen  places  similar  to  Ying's. 
Caverns  of  Inferno,  peopled,  as  was  his,  by  slaves  of  the 
poppy-blood.  I  walked  in  a  dream  through  a  maze  of 
narrow  streets,  our  leader  sometimes  volunteering  their 
names — Vitre,  La  Gauchitiere,  Bleury — uncanny  names.  I 
grew  tired,  depressed.  We  searched  for  a  man  with  a 
prayer  in  our  hearts  that  we  might  not  find  him  — 
not  find  him  in  the  Satanic  haunts  to  which  our  guide 
led  us. 

"  We'll  take  a  peep  into  some  of  the  chop  suey  houses," 
the  detective  said  at  last ;  "  our  man  might  be  havin'  some- 
thing to  eat." 

The  chop  suey  places  were  all  alike.  Up  creaking  stairs 
we  climbed  and  passed  through  narrow  halls  off  which 
opened  eating  rooms  that  were  like  large  boxes.  Sometimes 
these  were  occupied,  and  the  eaters  of  chop  suey  eyed  us 
curiously,  often  with  apprehension. 

Once  Connor  checked  as  we  trailed  in  Indian  file 
through  a  hallway,  saying:  "Faith,  there's  Ba'tiste,  I'll  ask 
him.  He's  the  divil  on  wheels  entirely.  He's  a  runner 
for  a  sailor's  boarding  house.  Sometimes  he  runs  with  the 
thieves,  and  sometimes  with  us." 

Through  the  half-open  door  of  a  room  I  saw  a  small, 
dark  man,  whose  face,  sharp-nosed  as  a  weasel's,  had  been 
pitted  by  smallpox  till  it  was  like  yellow,  pebbled  Morocco. 
Across  the  table  from  him  sat  a  frayed  female,  who  some- 
how conveyed  the  impression  of  a  rich  child's  doll  that  had 
fallen  in  the  gutter  and  lain  there  for  days.  Lace  and 

340 


The  Lone  Furrow 


flamboyant  red  ribbons  nestled  incongruously  in  her  hat,  on 
her  breast — seemingly  everywhere. 

"  Sit  aisy,  Ba'tiste,"  Connor  commanded,  his  white  teeth 
showing  in  a  smile  as  he  shoved  the  door  wide. 

"By  Gar!  Brian,  dat's  de  big  fright  you  give  me. 
Sacre\  I'm  'fraid  for  de  damn  p'lice." 

His  thin  lips  tightened  into  a  snarl  that  must  have  been 
intended  for  a  smile,  for  his  companion  gave  a  short,  nerv- 
ous chuckle. 

"Do  you  know  the  Sky  Pilot,  Ba'tiste ?" 

"  De  Protestant  cure  dat  pray  at  de  Fo'castle  for  de 
sailor?" 

Again  the  evil  pock-marked  face  was  twisted  by  the 
smile-snarl. 

"Yes.     Have  you  seen  him  lately — to-night?" 

"What  you  want,  eh — damn  p'liceman?" 

"Aisy,   Ba'tiste — nothin'   doin'." 

"  Say,  Brian — "  the  small,  narrow-slitted,  animal  eyes 
in  the  dark  face  were  suspicious — "  If  dere's  not'ing  doin', 
w'at  th'  hell  you  mak'  de  round  for,  eh? — jus'  passer  le 
temps'?" 

"  Don't  get  on  yer  ear,  Ba'tiste — perhaps  you  forget 
the  time  the  two  Greeks  were  ticklin'  your  ribs  with  cold 
steel." 

I  saw  the  evil  face  of  the  runner  relax  its  vicious  cun- 
ning, and  the  dark  yellow  skin  grew  mahogany  red  as 
though  warm  blood  chased  beneath  its  shell. 

"  Non,  non.  Brian,  you  damn  Irish!  Voila,  you  save 
me  dat  tarn'.  Mon  Dieu,  mon  Dieu,  pardonnez — I  forget — 
By  hell!  I  forget.  Yes,  spik  de  trut' — is  it  frien'  for  le 
Cure?  He  save  my  life,  too — he  nurse  me."  Ba'tiste  said 

341 


The  Lone  Furrow 

something  in  French  to  his  companion,  who  raised  her  hands 
in  an  inimitable  expression  of  pious  adoration.  "  See," 
Ba'tiste  continued  in  English,  "  Franchette  say  he  is  de  good 
man." 

"  These  are  his  friends,"  Connor  continued ;  "  they  want 
to  find  him." 

Baptiste  scanned  our  faces  narrowly.  It  was  difficult 
for  him  to  disabuse  his  mind  of  the  idea  that  when  the 
police  searched  for  anyone,  aught  but  trouble  was  behind  the 
searching.  With  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders  he  turned  from 
his  sharp  scrutiny  of  our  faces  to  ask — "  Irish,  what  you 
want  wit'  le  Cure — you  want  shanghai  him  for  some  damn 
landlubber  Bethel?  What  you  want?  Make  de  sign  of 
de  cross,  Irish,  an'  speak  de  trut'.  I  know  where  is  M'sieu 
le  Cure,  but  I'll  see  de  whole  damn  p'lice  force  in  hell 
'fore  I  tell  if  you  goin'  make  trouble  for  dat  poor  man. 
He's  a  Christian." 

"  If  it  is  the  minister  we're  looking  for,"  I  interposed, 
"  we  want  to  take  him  home  to  his  family ;  we  are  his 
friends." 

"  He's  not  done  not'ing  wrong — M on  Dieu !  why  I  ask, 
he  can't  do  not'ing  wrong,  he's  Christian.  Tres  bienJ  allez 
— come  wit'  me." 

The  runner's  invitation  was  comprehensive;  it  included 
the  gaudy  red-ribboned  lady  of  the  feast. 

Behind  these  two  we  walked  through  more  narrow 
streets,  the  sidewalks  of  which  were  like  furrows  plowed 
in  white  ice;  they  were  gutters  from  which  at  times  we 
climbed  over  mounds  of  frozen  snow,  following  our  guide 
who  disdained  crossings,  and,  as  I  fancied,  traveled  by  the 
instinct  of  direction.  We  never  came  into  the  broader  ways, 

342 


The  Lone  Furrow 


and  the  monotony  of  these  paths  between  silent  gloomed 
walls  caused  me  to  wonder  if  all  the  streets  of  the  city 
had  suddenly  shrunken  to  the  width  of  alleys. 

At  last  Ba'tiste  stopped  at  a  little  building  that  claimed 
as  approach  some  snow-covered  steps  that,  unshoveled,  were 
round  and  slippery.  He  whispered  to  his  companion,  and 
she  tapped  lightly  an  iron  knocker  that  sent  a  harsh  tattoo 
echoing  through  the  house. 

"  Dis  is  my  mudder's  house,"  Ba'tiste  said,  "  an'  M'sieu 
le  Cure  is  lodge  here.  But  he  won't  lodge  nowhere  pretty 
soon.  By  Gar!  he  is  soon  sign  pepers  for  de  long  voyage. 
Mon  Dieul  if  all  Protestant  is  goin'  to  Hell  den  M'sieu 
le  Cure  is  damned  for  sure,  but  if  some  Protestant  is  get 
to  Heaven,  by  Gar!  he  is  de  firs'  to  get  de  chance —  Ah, 
entrez,  M'sieurs.  Come,  Irish." 

As  we  entered,  a  small,  bent,  little  old  woman,  hold- 
ing a  lamp  in  her  thin  hands,  eyed  us  suspiciously.  Ba'tiste 
said  something  in  French,  and  she  gave  him  the  light, 
leaving  us  by  a  door  that  opened  off  the  hall,  and  Ba'tiste, 
bidding  us  follow,  led  the  way  up  a  winding  stairway  to 
an  upper  room. 

With  his  hand  on  the  door  he  whispered,  "  M'sieu  It 
Cure  is  seek;  I  will  firs'  knock  to  see  if  he  sleep." 

Ba'tiste  knocked  gently,  but  there  was  no  answer;  he 
knocked  again  and  there  was  no  response. 

Perhaps  it  was  all  the  nervous  tension  that  had  un- 
strung me;  a  chilling  dread  crept  into  my  heart — what 
if  that  now  we  had  found  Neil  we  should  find  but  the 
frail  tenement  that  had  clutched  brokenly  at  the  desk  of 
the  Mission — just  the  tenement,  and  the  other  that  was 
Neil  gone  forever!  It  would  be  like  another  step  in  this 

343 


The  Lone  Furrow 


deepening  tragedy;  this  mystery  that  never  lifted  from  out 
the  deeper  shadows. 

I  could  hear  Malcolm  breathe  heavily  in  the  suspense 
of  waiting. 

Ba'tiste  spread  the  expressive  fingers  of  his  hand  in  a 
silent  command  for  us  to  remain,  and,  turning  the  lock, 
he  swung  the  door  and  passed  into  the  room,  only  to  re- 
appear in  the  doorway  and  motion  us  to  enter.  He  held 
the  lamp  above  a  small  cot,  and  its  sickly  yellow  rays  fell 
upon  the  cold,  drawn  face  of  Neil  Munro. 

At  first  I  thought  he  was  dead;  the  eyes  were  closed, 
the  face  itself  gleamed  yellow-white  like  wax. 

I  saw  Malcolm's  hand  upon  Munro's  breast,  feeling 
his  heart. 

"  Is  he  dead  ?  "  I  whispered. 

Bain  shook  his  head.  "  No,  he's  not  dead,  poor  Neil ! 
but  he's  in  a  bad  way,"  he  said  presently. 

"What  is  it?"  I  asked — "what's  the  matter  with 
him?" 

"  Been  hittin'  the  pipe  too  much,"  the  detective  said,  and 
his  answer  sounded  brutal. 

" Non,  non"  objected  Ba'tiste;  "yes,  p'rhaps  hit  de 
pipe  leetle,  but  he  work  too  much,  an*  don't  eat  plenty. 
He's  seek,  he's  weak.  You  know  hes  name?"  Ba'tiste 
continued,  his  small  intense  eyes  fixed  on  my  face  ques- 
tioningly. 

I  nodded. 

"  By  Gar !  he  don't  hesself.  He  don't  know  not'ing — 
he's  lost;  just  work  for  le  bon  Dieu — can't  find  out  not'ing 
from  him ;  hes  frien'  he  don't  know." 

"  We  must  take  him  to  the  hospital,"  Malcolm  said ; 

344 


The  Lone  Furrow 


"  he  seems  to  be  in  a  sort  of  deep  stupor,  or  sleep — I  don't 
know  what  it  is." 

"  It's  the  opium,  sir,"  Connor  volunteered ;  "  I've  seen 
'em  like  that  before.  They  get  dopey." 

It  was  a  curious  form  of  limited  reasoning  the  young 
Irishman  had;  the  apparent  subverting  everything  else  of 
deduction. 

"Can  you  get  a  sleigh,  Ba'tiste?"  the  policeman  asked. 

"  Yes,  do,"  I  added ;  "  I'll  pay  you  for  your  trouble." 

While  Ba'tiste  was  gone  for  the  sleigh  we  tried  to  rouse 
Neil  to  consciousness;  we  chafed  his  hands,  and  Malcolm 
held  his  big  warm  palm  close-pressed  over  the  sluggish 
heart.  Something  of  the  terrific  life  force  that  was  in  Bain 
pulsated  into  the  somnolent  man,  he  sighed  wearily  once  or 
twice,  and  half  turned  his  head. 

When  the  sleigh  had  come,  Malcolm  took  the  Minister's 
thin  form  in  his  arms  as  though  he  had  been  a  babe  and 
carried  him,  still  wrapped  in  the  bed  blankets,  down  the 
complaining  stairs,  and  in  the  sleigh  we  hurried  to  the 
hospital  where  Robert  lay. 

"  Collapse,"  the  Doctor  said ;  grim,  comprehensive,  em- 
phatic word,  dealing  directly  w-ith  result,  not  troubling  with 
cause,  or  why  or  when.  And  after  a  little  he  added, 
"  There's  no  immediate  danger ;  but  the  man  is  a  wreck.  I 
should  say  he  was  doomed.  Opium,  overwork,  insufficient 
nutrition — just  one  of  those  terrible  fierce-working  men- 
talities that  burns  up  its  encasement." 

We  went  back  to  our  hotel,  Malcolm  and  I,  and  a  big 

cathedral  clock  perched  somewhere  on  the  great  shoulders 

of  the  broad  city  echoed  back  to  the  stars  with  metal  tongue, 

hour  after  hour,  the  spaces  of  night  time  they  chronicled  in 

23  345 


The  Lone  Furrow 


their  silent  transverse  of  the  dial  of  the  universe,  as  we 
two  friends  of  the  man  of  collapse  sat  sleepless  and  talked 
in  hushed  voice. 

Here  was  Jean's  ship,  battered,  a  derelict,  found  but  to 
be  towed  into  port — and  how?  What  was  now  to  do?  And 
having  found  Neil,  were  it  not  better  that  we  had  come 
upon  the  memory  of  a  man  dead? 

And  the  silent  voices  of  thought  read  to  us,  solved, 
the  riddle  of  the  many  months'  mystery.  The  tears  of 
despair  that  oozed  from  the  flagrant-hued  poppy,  silent 
lurking  devils  of  infamy,  had  caused  Neil  to  disappear. 
And  Jean  must  have  known.  Shielding  Neil's  name  this 
thing  she  had  hidden  in  her  heart,  with  no  word  of  upbraid- 
ing for  the  absent  one,  even  rather  reproaching  God  for 
His  want  of  sustaining  care.  And  Robert  too  had  known. 
In  all  his  blatant  drunkenness  he  had  remained  silent  on  this 
point.  I  cursed  myself  for  my  hideous  suspicions  of  the 
boy. 

And  now  actuality  and  knowledge  only  brought  closer 
the  edge  of  a  dark  future.  Better  a  thousand  times  that 
Neil  should  die  than  go  back,  like  a  son  of  Ahab,  to  sit 
in  the  shadow  of  God's  tabernacle,  and  in  the  light  of 
his  wife's  regard,  a  bondman  to  this  hideous  devil-god 
that  was  worse  than  Baal. 

The  wintery  dawn  grayed  our  frosted  window  with  its 
limning  of  ice  ferns  as  we  still  sat  chained  to  the  rock  of 
sleeplessness  by  these  links  of  bitter  memory  and  hopeless 
anticipation.  There  seemed  something  so  heinous  in  the 
power  of  trifles  for  evil. 

God,  wise,  omnipotent,  creative;  and  beneath  the  spread 
of  his  hand  a  woman  of  glorious  quality  and  a  man  of  God, 

346 


The   Lone  Furrow 


his  soul  afire  in  holiness;  a  flaunting  red-flushed  flower — a 
scratch  upon  its  pod,  and  oozing  drops  of  devil's  blood,  just 
trickling  tears  of  iniquity  that  drags  these  lives  into  a  mael- 
strom of  misery  and  sin  and  death. 

Why  should  the  countless  stars  through  all  eternity 
hold  true  in  their  ordainment,  and  the  sun  and  the  moon,  to 
the  welfare  and  the  glory  of  him  created  in  God's  image, 
when  this  one  small  black  drop  of  desolation  could  change 
the  hope  of  God,  man,  into  a  hopeless  creature  of  the  Devil? 

Thus  we  who  sorrowed  had  marveled  and  despaired — 
had  tabulated  nebulously  these  sensations  of  the  mind ;  some- 
times in  words,  and  sometimes  but  transient  clouds  and  rays 
of  light  scurrying  across  the  plain  of  our  understanding. 

From  neither  of  us  came  a  word  of  reproach  for  the 
author  of  the  misery — and  was  he  even  the  author?  Un- 
expressed we  both  felt  this;  through  him  it  passed,  the 
misery. 

But  for  Jean,  bearer  of  a  gift  from  God,  we  must  take 
thought;  and  if  the  truth  were  helpful  we  would  be  glad 
bearers  of  the  truth;  but  if  solace  lay  in  lies,  then  fear- 
lessly, resolutely,  I  for  one  would  lie,  saying  that  at  last 
Neil  was  found,  and  being  sick  would  soon  be  well 
again. 

Perhaps  I  spoke  something  of  this  to  Malcolm,  for 
I  heard  him  saying:  "  We  must  tell  Jean  that  Neil  met  with 
an  accident,  but  will  soon  be  back  to  the  pulpit.  I'm 
thinking  that  when  she  has  her  little  bairnie  dabbing  at  her 
checks  with  his  chubby  fist  she'll  stand  to  be  told  whatever 
there  is  to  tell;  for  when  Jean  is  just  herself,  a  Craig,  she 
has  rare  pluck — a  strong  heart.  We'll  talk  it  over  to- 
gether, Cameron,  when  we  come  by  whatever  the  Doctor 

347 


The  Lone  Furrow 


knows,  and  we'll  fix  it  up  to  tide  the  poor  girl  over  her 
hour  of  trial." 

"  Yes,"  I  answered,  "  and  the  first  act  in  this  neces- 
sary programme  is  a  letter  home  written  on  rose-colored 
paper  with  the  lines  all  running  uphill,  which  indicates 
cheerful  hope,  optimism." 

For  three  days  Neil  wandered  in  the  borderland  that 
lies  half  in  the  Shadow  of  the  Valley  of  Death.  It  was 
wonderful  to  me  that  the  machinery  of  human  structure 
could  run  so  silently,  so  close  to  the  edge  of  cessation,  and 
yet  not  stop.  It  was  like  a  clock  that,  inaudible  in  its 
escapement,  still  carries  its  pendulum  over  the  dead-center. 

On  the  fourth  day  the  pendulum  just  whispered — Neil's 
heart  beat  stronger,  and  the  Doctor,  who  had  answered  our 
queries  in  a  negation  of  silence,  now  said :  "  The  patient, 
with  care,  will  live  for  a  time;  how  long  I  cannot  say.  He 
is  just  worn  out.  More  opium  will  kill  him,  and  without 
it  he  will  die." 

"  The  opium  will  surely  kill  him,  Doctor?  "  I  queried. 

"  Yes,  he  is  half  atrophied  now.  But  if  he  had  not 
used  it,  as  he  has  lived,  burning  up  his  life  force  without 
sufficient  rest  and  nutriment,  he  would  have  died  of  col- 
lapse or  pneumonia  before  this.  This  slow  poison  has 
enabled  his  system  to  repulse  the  other  agents  of  disease, 
the  small  eaters-up  of  life." 

"  But  does  no  one  ever  recover  if  they  give  up  the 
opium  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Few  ever  give  it  up,  and  when  they  do  they  generally 
die.  There  have  been  cases  of  dearly  bought  victory — such 
as  De  Quincy's — but  our  patient  has  not  the  stamina,  I 
think.  In  India  in  the  jails  the  officials  recognize  the  fact 

348 


The  Lone  Furrow 


that  the  confirmed  opium  users  lean  their  lives  upon  this 
devil-shadow,  and  they  are  allowed  a  daily  portion  of  the 
drug.  I  have  deemed  it  necessary  to  give  this  man  a  little 
since  he  has  come  to  the  hospital — he  would  have  died 
otherwise." 

"  How  long  do  you  think  he  might  possibly  live  if  he 
succeeded  in  breaking  off  the  habit — took  no  opium?"  I 
asked. 

"  My  answer  to  that  must  be  almost  a  guess.  He  might 
die  within  a  month,  he  might  live  even  two  or  three  years, 
with  tender  care.  He's  like  a  man  with  an  incurable  dis- 
ease; the  works  will  gradually  run  slower  and  slower  until 
they  stop." 

Another  two  days  and  Neil  was  able  to  converse  with 
us.  At  first  he  recognized  Malcolm  and  myself  dimly; 
our  faces  were  like  faces  that  appeared  to  him  in  a  dream. 
Gradually  his  true  condition  became  known  to  us.  He  had 
forgotten  many  things.  Strangely  enough,  periods  in  his 
existence  deeper  down  in  the  annals  of  the  past  were  more 
vivid  than  incidents  of  later  time.  It  was  as  though  he 
had  come  out  of  India  a  month  ago;  and  yet  to  him  it 
was  a  thousand  years  since  he  labored  in  the  Lord's  vine- 
yard there.  The  church  at  lona  meant  just  a  tabernacle 
of  God  standing  in  the  world;  the  trials,  the  hopes,  and 
the  fears  had  obliterated  themselves,  and  he  spoke  of  hav- 
ing labored  unavailingly,  vainly,  that  he  had  been  a  weak 
vessel  shattered  by  the  strength  of  predominant  sin. 

We  had  hesitated  fearfully  at  first  to  speak  of  Jean;  a 
foreboding  of  something  held  the  name  unuttered  on  our 
lips.  He  was  like  a  child  to  be  led  into  the  paths  of 
memory  by  the  sight  of  familiar  signs. 

349 


The  Lone  Furrow 


It  was  Malcolm  who  said  at  last:  "Jean  is  waiting 
at  home  for  you,  Neil,  and  when  you  are  stronger  \vc 
are  to  take  you  back  to  your  wife." 

For  a  day  the  words  "  Jean,"  and  "  wife,"  and  "  home  " 
came  and  went  fitfully  in  his  mind,  sometimes  finding  mo- 
mentary life  on  his  lips. 

Of  his  going  away  from  lona,  of  his  coming  to  Mon- 
treal, of  the  life  there,  all  was  a  blank;  it  was  something 
sealed  and  in  the  keeping  of  another.  The  slow  tortuous 
unraveling  of  the  frayed  ends  of  the  past,  the  smoothing 
out  of  the  wrinkled  intellect,  was  a  soul-trying,  almost  hope- 
less, endeavor. 

Neil's  faint  grasp  of  reality  grew  stronger  so  imper- 
ceptibly that  we  scarce  noticed  it.  But  at  last  he  began  to 
understand,  though  as  yet  weakly.  Our  faces  gradually 
found  their  counterpart  registered  in  the  long  ago  of  his 
mind;  the  words  Jean  and  home  and  the  others  beat  at 
the  barriers  of  forgetfulness,  shattering  the  walls  of  ob- 
livion, until  they  entered  deeper  into  the  citadel  of  his 
understanding,  and  he  talked  of  all  these  things,  the  dearest 
on  earth,  in  the  monotonous  voice  of  a  man  who  discusses 
the  trivial  commonplaces  of  life. 

"  This  state  will  pass,"  the  Doctor  said ;  "  time  will 
brush  the  cobwebs  away.  His  mentality  will  clear." 

"And  after  that—"   I   asked,   "what?" 

"He  will  die.  His  mental  force  is  the  stronger;  un- 
drugged  it  will  work  smoothly,  but  the  shattered  machinery 
of  his  physical  force  will  stop." 

"And  of  the  drug,"  I  asked— "  the  fearful  opium?" 

"  He  is  getting  none  of  it  now;  something  else?  yes. 
And  when  he  is  a  little  stronger  he  must  decide  for  him- 

350 


The  Lone   Furrow 


self — opium  and  a  little  longer  of  life,  with  a  death  in 
sin,  or  no  opium,  and  perhaps  to  leave  a  little  sooner." 

There  came  the  day  we  were  to  take  Neil  back  to  the 
village,  for  it  now  rested  altogether  with  himself  and  God. 
His  mind  had  grown  almost  strong;  he  could  walk  feebly, 
like  a  child. 

And  Robert  was  going,  too,  a  helpless  cripple,  to  be 
carried. 

Neil  was  in  a  private  ward,  and  we  were  allowed  to  be 
with  him  at  will.  It  was  the  night  before  the  homegoing 
that  Munro  told  Malcolm  and  me  of  the  coming  of  his 
shame,  of  drifting  into  the  land  of  the  Lotus  Eaters.  It 
was  a  sad,  bitter  tale  of  unsought  sin. 

In  India  it  had  begun,  this  carrying  of  the  yoke  of 
damnation.  A  famine  had  come  to  the  district  in  which 
Neil  labored,  and  he  had  worked  night  and  day  to  save  not 
only  the  souls,  but  the  bodies  of  his  people.  He  had  over- 
taxed his  strength  a  thousandfold,  living  on  his  will  when 
his  body  was  starved  by  insufficient  food  and  his  blood 
scorched  by  the  fierce  heat. 

A  faithful  servant,  Rammia,  had  given  him — without 
his  knowing  it  at  first — the  black  essence  of  sustainment, 
and  when  he  did  come  to  know  the  price  of  his  own  sacri- 
fice, it  seemed  nothing  if  he  accomplished  good  for  his 
people;  if  he  could  save  them  body  and  soul. 

Neil  told  the  sad  story  without  abhorrence.  That  it 
had  wrecked  his  life  seemed  to  carry  nothing  of  remorse. 
It  was  a  curious  phase  of  Christianity,  and  yet  that  is  what 
it  was,  Christianity;  not  out  of  physical  desire,  but  just  for 
a  little  sustaining  to  carry  on  the  work  of  his  Master. 

But  when  Neil  left  India  he  had  given  up  the  drug. 

351 


The  Lone  Furrow 


He  told  us  of  the  horrible  fight  he  had  made  to  conquer, 
and  he  had  conquered.  He  only  thought  he  had  really,  for 
when  brought  weak  again  by  overwork  and  mental  strain 
in  the  village,  the  Devil,  who  had  been  waiting,  held  to  his 
soul  the  allurement  of  false  strength,  and  he  fell. 

Then  Robert  had  discovered  Neil's  secret  sin.  There 
had  been  a  torrent  of  recrimination  from  the  boy,  smart- 
ing under  Neil's  monitorship  over  his  weakness.  Neil, 
hovering  on  the  brink  of  physical  collapse,  struck  by  the 
tragic  awfulness  of  his  position,  was  hurled  into  an  abyss 
of  mental  darkness.  He  had  wandered  forth  in  the  early 
morning,  following  an  impulse  to  flee  from  his  shame,  and, 
from  that  time  until  lifted  into  reason  in  the  hospital,  he 
had  wandered  in  a  dim  cavern  of  forgetfulness,  his  in- 
tellect working  like  a  clock  with  the  present,  the  past  al- 
most a  dead  thing  of  the  past.  It  was  something  akin 
to  instinct  that  had  held  him  in  the  field  of  his  life's  work, 
the  service  of  God. 

Neil  himself  explained  it  very  simply  as  the  guidance 
of  God,  but  to  me  it  held  an  unfathomable  depth  of 
psychology,  even  of  physiology. 

Such  phases  of  the  mystery  as  this  would  never  be 
solved,  I  knew;  but,  how  simple  the  unraveling  of  the 
mystifying  actualities,  Neil's  disappearance  and  its  cause, 
now  was.  How  simple,  and  yet  how  terrible,  the  shadow 
of  despair  and  inevitable  death  thrown  ineffaceably  across 
Neil's  life  and  Jean's. 

And  now  Robert,  the  secret  he  had  carried  locked  in 
his  heart  known  to  us,  admitted  that  Jean  had  also  known. 
He  had  gone  to  Jean  with  the  horrible  story,  and  she  had 
made  him  swear  never  to  divulge  it;  that  was  why  his 

352 


The  Lone  Furrow 


lips  had  been  sealed.  It  was  an  opium  pipe  he  had  thrust 
in  his  pocket  from  the  drawer,  and  fearing  that  I,  who  had 
been  in  India,  might  discover  the  telltale  odor  of  opium, 
he  had  gone  back  to  the  study  and  destroyed  every  taint. 
Even  the  jade-handled  knife  had  carried  on  its  sharp  point 
the  sickly  smell,  for  Neil  must  have  used  it  to  cut  the 
opium  into  little  pellets. 

It  seemed  a  lifetime  that  we  had  been  away  when  we 
once  more,  creeping  through  the  evening  shadows,  came  to 
the  Hedge.  No  one  in  the  village  knew  we  were  coming 
except  the  Memsahib  and  Jean. 

It  was  a  crowded  hallway  that  we  pushed  into.  Mal- 
colm carrying  Robert  in  his  arms  from  the  bus.  It  was 
like  a  flower  stall,  five  little  rose  bushes  that  dodged  about, 
or  stood  against  the  wall  to  make  room,  and  the  curious 
white  weed,  crazy  with  delight,  that  whined  and  leaped 
against  my  legs. 

For  me  there  was  a  clasp  of  warm  arms;  and  for  Neil 
the  Memsahib's  hand  that  led  him  to  the  big  armchair  by 
the  grate. 

On  the  sofa,  gently  laid  by  Malcolm,  Robert  was  soon 
quite  hidden  by  the  rose  bushes  that  transplanted  themselves 
into  a  hedge  at  his  side. 

I  knew  that  Jean  was  in  her  room,  for  the  Memsahib's 
letters  had  prepared  me  for  this. 

Presently  the  bustle  of  our  coming  died  to  a  little  hush, 
and  suddenly  a  small  wavering  fretful  voice — the  voice  of 
a  babe,  came  in  a  tiny  treble  down  the  stairway,  and  rang 
in  our  ears  like  the  sweet  music  of  silver  bells. 

I  saw  Malcolm  start  and  his  big  solemn  eyes  grew  soft 
and  luminous. 

353 


The  Lone   Furrow 


Something  of  thankfulness  surged  from  my  heart  and 
crept  its  choking  way  upward,  and  my  voice  was  thick  as, 
putting  my  hand  in  Munro's,  I  said:  "  Neil,  that's  the  voice 
of  your  child." 

His  lip  trembled  as  he  essayed  to  speak.  Tears  coursed 
down  his  pale  cheeks;  he  rose  to  his  feet,  and  going  over 
to  where  the  Memsahib  sat,  kissed  her  on  the  forehead. 

The  Memsahib  took  Munro's  hand,  saying:  "God  has 
been  good  to  Jean,  Neil;  you  can  go  up  to  see  her  and 
the  boy  presently — when  the  first  joy  of  your  coming  has 
quieted  a  little." 

Then  she  led  Munro  back  to  the  chair.  He  raised  his 
tired  eyes  upward  and  said  solemnly:  "Thank  God 
for  all  His  goodness,  and  His  mercy  to  me,  a  poor,  re- 
pentant sinner!  " 


(i) 


354 


A  MASTERPIECE  OF  FICTION. 

The  Guarded  Flame. 

By  W.    B.  MAXWELL,  Author  of  "Vivien." 
Cloth,  $1.50. 

"  '  The  Guarded  Flame,  by  W.  B.  Maxwell,  is  a  booK 
to  challenge  the  attention  of  the  reading  public  as  a  re- 
markable study  of  moral  law  and  its  infraction.  Mr.  Max- 
well is  the  son  of  Miss  M.  E.  Braddon  (Mrs.  John  Maxwell), 
whose  novels  were  famous  a  generation  ago,  and  his  first 
book  '  Vivien '  made  the  English  critics  herald  him  as  a 
new  force  in  the  world  of  letters.  '  The  Guarded  Flame ' 
is  an  even  more  astonishing  production,  a  big  book  that 
takes  rank  with  the  most  important  fiction  of  the  year. 
It  is  not  a  book  for  those  who  read  to  be  amused  or  to  be 
entertained.  It  touches  the  deepest  issues  of  life  and  death." 

— Albany  Argus. 

"The  most  powerfully  written  book  of  the  year." 

—  The  Independent. 

" '  The  Guarded  Flame '  is  receiving  high  praise  from 
the  critics  everywhere." — Chicago  Record-Herald. 

"  This  is  a  book  which  cannot  fail  to  make  its  mark." 

— Detroit  News. 

"Great  novels  are  few  and  the  appearance  of  one  at 
any  period  must  give  the  early  reviewer  a  thrill  of  discovery. 
Such  a  one  has  come  unheralded  ;  but  from  a  source  whence 
it  might  have  been  confidently  expected.  The  author  is 
W.  B.  Maxwell,  son  of  the  voluminous  novelist  known  to 
the  world  as  Miss  Braddon.  His  novel  is  entitled  'The 
Guarded  Flame.'  " — Philadelphia  Press. 

"  The  books  of  W.  B.  Maxwell  are  essentially  for  think- 
ers."— St.  Louis  Post- Dispatch. 

D.    APPLETON    AND    COMPANY,    NEW    YORK. 


BY  LLOYD  OSBOURNE. 


Three  Speeds  Forward. 

Uniquely  illustrated  with  full-page  illustrations, 
head  and  tail  pieces  and  many  sketches  by  Karl 
Anderson  and  H.  D.  Williams.  Ornamental  Cloth, 
$1.00. 

"  '  Three  Speeds  Forward '  is  an  amusing  automobile  story  by  Lloyd 
Osbourne,  in  which  the  ostensible  teller  of  what  happened  is  the  girl 
heroine.  A  little  runabout  is  the  important  factor  in  the  love  romance. 
The  book  is  prettily  bound  and  printed  and  is  illustrated." —  Toledo  Blade. 

"  '  Three  Speeds  Forward,'  by  Lloyd  Osbourne,  is  a  very  brief  and 
most  agreeable  novelette  dealing  with  modern  society  and  the  chug- 
chug  wagon." — Philadelphia  Inquirer. 

"  The  climax  of  this  story  is  original  and  most  humorous.  The 
action  is  rapid  and  consistent  with  the  subject  in  hand.  Altogether  it  is 
a  most  enjoyable  little  volume,  well  illustrated  and  attractively  bound." 

— Milwaukee  Sentinel. 

"  It  is  a  bright  and  sprightly  little  story,  very  strongly  flavored  with 
gasoline,  but  quite  readable.  It  is  attractively  and  characteristically 
illustrated." — New  York  Times. 

Wild  Justice. 

Illustrated.     Ornamental  Cloth,  $1.50. 

"  Lloyd  Osbourne's  stories  of  the  South  Sea  Islands  are  second  only 
to  Stevenson's  on  the  same  theme.  '  Wild  Justice '  is  a  volume  of  these 
short  stories,  beginning  with  that  strong  and  haunting  tale,  '  The  Rene- 
gade.' These  are  stories  which  will  bear  reading  more  than  once. 
They  have  an  atmosphere  that  it  is  restful  to  breathe,  once  in  a  while, 
to  the  dwellers  in  cities  and  the  toilers  of  these  Northern  lands  where 
life  is  such  a  stern  affair." — Denver  Post. 

"  Mr.  Lloyd  Osbourne's  nine  stories  of  the  South  Sea  Islands  ('  Wild 
Justice ')  are  told  with  a  Kiplingesque  vigor,  and  well  illustrate  their 
title.  All  are  eminently  readable — not  overweighted  with  tragedy,  as 
is  the  wont  of  tales  that  deal  with  the  remote  regions  of  the  earth." 

— New  York  Times. 

"  Mr.  Osbourne  in  '  Wild  Justice '  has  given  us  a  series  of  stories 
about  the  Samoan  Islands  and  their  islanders  and  their  white  invaders, 
visitors  and  conquerors  which  are  vivid  with  humor  and  pathos." 

— New  York  Herald. 

D.     APPLETON     AND    COMPANY,     NEW    YORK. 


TWO  CHARMING  STORIES. 


The  Little  King  of  Angel's  Landing. 

By  ELMORE  ELLIOTT  PEAKE.  Illustrated. 
Cloth,  $1.25. 

This  is  a  story  of  a  plucky  little  cripple  of  indomitable 
energy  and  perseverance.  How,  boy-like,  he  forms  an  ideal 
love  for  his  school  teacher  and  wins  a  great  voting  contest 
for  her ;  how  he  patiently  saves  his  pennies  to  get  himself 
"  fixed " ;  how  his  faithful  dog  is  killed  and  the  shock  it 
brings  to  the  frail  little  soul ;  how  he  struggles  onward, 
upward,  and  at  last  conies  into  his  birthright — all  these  are 
incidents  of  a  story  the  kindly  humor  and  infinite  pathos 
of  which  are  deeply  appealing. 

"There  are  tears  and  smiles  in  every  chapter  of  'The  Little  King 
of  Angel's  Landing.'  " — Denver  Post. 

"There  is  a  mighty  human  interest — a  something  that  takes  hold 
of  your  heart  and  sometimes  hurts  it  a  bit,  but  which  presently  makes 
you  correspondingly  glad — in  '  The  Little  King  of  Angel's  Landing.'  " 

— Cincinnati  Times-Star. 

The  House  of  Hawley. 

By  ELMORE  ELLIOTT  PEAKE.  Ornamental 
Cloth,  $1.50. 

" '  The  House  of  Hawley,'  by  Elmore  Elliott  Peake,  is  one  of  the 
'  homiest '  stories  we  have  met  in  a  long  while.  .  .  .  Instead  of  calling 
so  often  for  the  great  American  novel,  perhaps  we  should  give  more 
attention  to  the  many  good  American  novels,  of  which  '  The  House 
of  Hawley '  is  one,  containing  faithful  and  interesting  portrayal  of  life 
in  some  one  of  the  many  and  diversified  sections  of  the  country." 

— New  York  Globe. 

"  There  is  not  a  dull  page  in  the  whole  book.  It  is  well  worth 
reading." — St.  Louis  Star. 

"'The  House  of  Hawley'  is  a  fresh,  readable  story  by  Elmore 
Elliott  Peake,  the  theme  of  which  is  laid  in  the  '  Egypt '  of  southern 
Illinois.  The  title  fits  better  than  usual,  and  the  characters  depicted 
are  real  people.  There  is  not  a  single  stick  of  dead  timber  among  the 
various  men  and  women." — Chicago  Record-Herald. 

D.    APPLETON    AND    COMPANY,    NEW    YORK 


A  ROMANCE  OF  THE  CIVIL  WAR. 

The  Victory. 

By  MOLLY  ELLIOTT  SEAWELL,  author  of  "  The 
Chateau  of  Montplaisir,"  "  The  Sprightly  Romance 
of  Marsac,"  etc.  Illustrated.  Cloth,  $1.50. 

"With  so  delicate  a  touch  and  appreciation  of  the  detail 
of  domestic  and  plantation  life,  with  so  wise  comprehension 
of  the  exalted  and  sometimes  stilted  notions  of  Southern 
honor  and  with  humorous  depiction  of  African  fidelity  and 
bombast  to  interest  and  amuse  him,  it  only  gradually  dawns 
on  a  reader  that  'The  Victory'  is  the  truest  and  most 
tragic  presentation  yet  before  us  of  the  rending  of  home 
ties,  the  awful  passions,  the  wounded  affections  personal 
and  national,  and  the  overwhelming  questions  of  honor 
which  weighed  down  a  people  in  the  war  of  son  against 
father  and  brother  against  brother." — Hartford  Courant. 

"Among  the  many  romances  written  recently  about  the 
Civil  War,  this  one  by  Miss  Seawell  takes  a  high  place.  .  .  . 
Altogether,  'The  Victory,'  a  title  significant  in  several 
ways,  makes  a  strong  appeal  to  the  lover  of  a  good  tale." 

— Tfa  Outlook. 

"  Miss  Seawell's  narrative  is  not  only  infused  with  a 
tender  and  sympathetic  spirit  of  romance  and  surcharged 
with  human  interests,  but  discloses,  in  addition,  careful  and 
minute  study  of  local  conditions  and  characteristic  man- 
nerisms. It  is  an  intimate  study  of  life  on  a  Virginia 
plantation  during  an  emergent  and  critical  period  of  Amer- 
ican history." — Philadelphia  North  American. 

"  It  is  one  of  the  romances  that  make,  by  spirit  as  well  as 
letter,  for  youth  and  high  feeling.  It  embodies,  perhaps,  the 
best  work  this  author  yet  has  done." — Chicago  Record- Her  aid. 

"  Aside  from  the  engaging  story  itself  and  the  excellent 
manner  in  which  it  is  told  there  is  much  of  historic  interest 
in  this  vivid  word-picture  of  the  customs  and  manners  of  a 
period  which  has  formed  the  background  of  much  fiction." 

— Brooklyn  Citizen. 

D.    APPLETON     AND     COMPANY,     NEW    YORK. 


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